The Game
by Sarahofthefields
Summary: Peeta's experiences in The Hunger Games. Thanks to all who read.
1. Chapter 1

"I with thee have fixed my lot,

Certain to undergo like doom; if death

Consort with thee, death is to me as life;

So forcible within my heart I feel

The bond of nature draw me to my own,

My own in thee, for what thou art is mine;

Our state cannot be severed,

[...] to lose thee were to lose myself"

-John Milton, _Paradise_ _Lost_ , Book 9, 955-959

Run, run, run! Just run! Run, run, RUN! I leap from my pedestal and tear off into the nearby woods. My heart pounds in my hands and ears and skin as the cool air of the morning flows through the trees. It would be a beautiful day, if it wasn't one so deadly. I might actually find it all quite lovely, if I wasn't running to escape. Jumping over fallen logs and ripping through underbrush, I do my best to keep my head. Just run. Get some distance. Run! Don't stop to look. Just run. I can hear Haymitch's voice pressing in my head: run, run, run, run.

My lungs sharply burn, yet I don't stop. There is no path in the woods. The ground starts to climb, and my pace slows. But I keep running. Just run. How far have I gone? Far enough? It will never be far enough. I can still hear the sound of steel slicing into skin, the spatter of blood on grass, the thick thud of an arrow hitting its mark. And the cries of children: I hear that too. Wails of despair and victory intermingle in the atmosphere, a horrifying music.

So I keep running, though slower than before. I make it to the top of the hill, my chest heaving for air; the woods have closed in quite heavily now. Fir trees and shrubs and large broad elm and oak create a bulky canopy over and around the forest floor. And still I run.

Large tears suddenly fill my eyes; I can hear my breath catching as I dart through the trees. Don't let them see! Just keep going.

Eventually, I have to stop. When I do, I try to be as quiet as I can be to listen for others. Despite my heavy breathing, the woods is quiet. Quivering, I kneel on the mossy ground and try to slow my heart. It takes a long time. Too long. There is more in my heart than just adrenaline: so much more. Once my breath has slowed, I simply stare at a small wood violet growing at my knee. It is delicate and vulnerable, strangely beautiful. I shut my eyes, listening, thinking, feeling. my knuckles deep in moss and grass. The air is light, but it carries no sound of pursuant feet. With a heavy effort, my now exhausted legs struggle to let me stand; as I limp around looking for any kind of visual clearing in the trees, I strain to see how far I have come. The leaves crowd in and block any certainty, yet from the top of the hill I can see the distant glimmer of a lake. For a moment, I feel stupid; Haymitch had told us to find water first, and there it is, far in the opposite direction. Idiot! My heart races again, and I try to breathe. However, my mind, so tempted to race off into chaos and panic, steadies itself. I'm not dead yet. There might be water in a river or a stream; the lake looks pretty big; I might be able to walk to a more isolated point on its shore for water. There are a lot of options still. Just pick one. I sit down to further steady myself, and feel the chill of the grass, soft and wet. For a moment, I regret sitting in the cold, but then I smile a little. There is dew still. I grab a bunch of grass and suck the water off of the blades. It isn't much, but it is something. While I harvest the droplets, I think through my options. I could try and skirt the edge of the lake hopefully not running into other tributes, or I could travel in the opposite direction and search for water that way. Neither option feels particularly promising. In one direction, I could and likely would meet with tributes; the careers will most likely set up somewhere near all the resources, or so Haymitch said. I think back to his words to me in our private training session:

"Stay away from the Careers until the time is right. Hold off crossing them for the first few days if you can help it. They will be all blood-lusty, and won't think much of what you have to offer. They will just kill you and then ask questions. Stay away from where ever they are. They tend to be pretty predictably lazy when it comes to camp. They usually stay near all the resources and pick the best location near water and shelter. So unless you change your mind and have a sudden death wish right away, then stay away from the cornucopia. They might pick somewhere else, but I doubt it. They don't want to bother with starting from scratch somewhere else if they have it all right there."

In the other direction, however, I have no guarantee that I will find water. In select other games, the gamemakers have sometimes put tributes into arenas where there is no water at all; those games were very quick to end, and they weren't very popular years with viewers because the tributes all died so quickly from thirst, not combat. Thus, the gamemakers typically offer some chances of finding water somehow, not because of compassion but more out of viewership; however, that does not mean that there is more water in the arena besides the lake. The lake might be it. If I take my chances trying to find other sources of water, then I could be wandering for days, all to no end. However, I could try and drink dew in the mornings, as long as I can find grass; if I can stay out of the way and hidden, the first part of my plan, then I might have a chance to get down to the lake later.

I rub my face with dew; it run cold on my forehead. And I think of Katniss.

She, a lingering and constant hum of presence in my mind, is somewhere in the woods too, hopefully. I picture her face, pale and sharp in the morning light, standing on her podium, poised to spring up to the cornucopia to snatch up the bow and arrows that lay there waiting for her. I could see that she was too easily being seduced by the glinting weapons: too soon. She was forgetting what Haymitch said, or she was ignoring it. I think of how her eyes flitted around the circle of tributes, evaluating what her chances were to make it to the bow before the others. And her eyes found me, just as the final seconds were counting down.

Part of me dreads this evening when they announce the dead tributes. Will her name be among the fallen? The thought terrifies me, but I can't let that overtake me now. Not now.

I have to decide where I am going. Either way, my end is the same.

Standing up stiffly, I once more look out to the lake; then with a sigh, I start walking in the opposite direction, hiking along the hillside. My progress is slow; I try to be quiet, but I know that I am noisy despite my efforts; every step I take makes something snap, and it makes my body more and more on edge. Every now and then I stop and listen for anyone nearby. Only once did I hear some distant voices, muffled in the air. And soon, they faded again.

Time drifts by remarkably quick. Before I really register it, the sun is past noon, and my stomach is crawling with a distant pang. However, there's nothing to eat around me, and as the sun gets hotter, I notice my thirst more prominently. Despite the dew, I know that I am getting dehydrated. And still, as I traverse the hillside, I can not hear or see any water. I don't really know what to be looking for. As time continues to slide by, I start to feel stupid for my choices. My adrenaline has lowered in the quiet of the woods, but I am still ever on edge.

Eventually, the hillside descends back down into the valley, and I carefully pick my way down the slope. In the stillness, my mind wanders to all the places of memory and horror. I try inwardly to remain calm, and only when I think about Katniss does my heart settle. Thinking about her helps me to remember why I am here, what I am doing, and what to do next. She reminds me of what is real and what matters.

The rest of the afternoon is spent slowly wandering the valley listening, walking, and listening again. While I walk, to calm my mind, I conjure up memories. I try to focus on what about my life has been good, not good in the sense of positive, but good in the idea of goodness. What in my life has meant anything? White flour, hard work, my father's eyes, my brother's laughter, the sunlight on the back of my mother's neck, a red dress on a little girl, long dark hair in braids floating in the wind, rain, burnt bread, Katniss. It seems to always come back to her. If I didn't know better, or if I was a different person, then I would probably hate her for how she has overtaken and flooded every part of my life without even knowing it. Even when we didn't speak or know each other, I always kept an eye out for her.

As I walk, the memories slam their way through my mind, shaking me with the violence.

I can remember it all with an alarming precision: the day that I saw her, the day that she sang, and the day when it rained.

The sun was hidden behind a thin sheen of clouds as I walked with my father to the train. He pushed an empty wheel-barrow, heading to the station to receive shipments of flour and raisins. He had taken me along with him despite my mother's protests. She had insisted that I needed to practice my kneading like the rest of the boys were doing that afternoon, but my father had countered that the shipments needed more than two hands and that I was the strongest to handle the sacks of flour. After a small amount of bickering, my mother had surrendered. My father walked with an ambling gait, puffing out deep breaths, his strong arms steady.

As we crossed the square, they were walking in the opposite direction: Mr Everdeen and his eldest daughter. I remember Mr Everdeen as a tall slim wall of grey flannel, his eyes deep and melancholy, his hands sooty and large. My father nodded to him, and Everdeen returned the silent greeting as he held his daughter's hand. When we had reached a far enough distance, my father muttered with a tone I hadn't heard before, "You see that little girl, Peeta?"

I turned around and looked at the little girl with dark long braids, then glanced back up at my father.

He continued with a sad voice: "I was going to marry her mother once."

In my child-mind, I was dumb-founded: "Why? Didn't you want to marry mother?"

"I hadn't met your mother yet." He explained. "I met Mrs Everdeen first."

"So why didn't you marry her?" I ask, confused at my father's strange and unexpected confession.

"Mr Everdeen sang to her, and it stole her heart away."

I looked back at the retreating figures of Mr Everdeen and his little girl. They didn't seem very spectacular to my eye.

"Why did he sing?"

"Because he loved her too."

"Why? Isn't he from the Seam?"

"Yes, Peeta. She was very beautiful."

"But you're a baker. Why didn't she chose you?"

"Because...when Mr Everdeen sings, even the birds stop to hear him."

I didn't understand it then. It made no sense to me, and I found myself a little angry at Mr Everdeen and his child.

"But baking is good too!" I retort.

"Of course it is, Peeta."

And my father simply continued his walk, steady and slow. I didn't understand it: not until a few weeks later in school.

Her dark braids, the red dress, her quick hand, and her voice: she won me over when the first few notes of the Valley Song filled the small classroom.

I don't know how to explain it in a way that makes sense or that is rational. When I heard her sing, some how in my childish mind, I knew that I would always be drawn to her, that I would do anything for her. It was more than beauty. It was more than fancy. It was something else. Something that I still can't quite understand. In that moment, I saw her for what she was in her most vulnerable form, standing there by herself on the chair above the rest of us. At school, she was withdrawn and quiet, yet when she started to sing, she became something completely different. It was like a veil was drawn back, and you could see the little person inside, eager, beautiful, curious, a small girl who wanted to be heard: not in a grotesque way, but in the way that a bird naturally sings for the morning. It isn't being arrogant; it just is.

And like a bird, she so easily flew from grasp, retreating into her guarded personae, intimidating, beautiful, and distant. How can a child even begin to understand all of that? For years after that, it was easy to simply watch the songbird from a distance. There were so many times I tried to gather courage to talk to her, but every time, I grew too fearful. She didn't need me. She didn't need anyone. Why should I bother?

The only time I ever dared to approach was when it rained. The whole week had been a steady downpour, dark and grey. I had heard that in the mine collapse, her father had been killed along with so many others. She had been absent from school, and I hadn't seen her in weeks. My mother was running the shop, and my brothers and I were working on the next days quotas of loafs. I heard a clamouring from the back door, my mother's voice suddenly shrill and angry. Peaking out the small window near me, I saw an impossibly thin figure retreating towards the pig pen in the sheets of rain. It wasn't until she turned to the side and I saw her long braid that I knew who she was. My mother entered the kitchen angrily moving pans and muttering to herself, her eyes flashing.

"Damn Seam kids" she mumbled, then hearing the front door bell ring, she left to tend to the customer.

Once she was gone I looked at Katniss in the rain again. She was sitting under a tree near the pen, her thin legs gathered up under her like a grasshopper.

For a moment, the world seemed to pause, my eyes trained on her, my mind in suspension, my hands holding two fresh loafs, ready to be wrapped in paper. Then: a tangible snap in my head and heart. It felt like an elastic band that had been stretched in me so long finally had worn thin and snapped back with a sharp pinch. What I did next didn't even really register in my mind. I simply took the two loafs I was holding, checked to see if my mother was still busy, then leaned over the oven and placed the bread directly onto the fire. My brothers smelt the smoke soon enough, and yelled out in objection and warning. However, I kept my focus on the loafs, waiting till the outside was charred enough to be deemed unfit for sale. It wasn't that I wanted to give Katniss burnt bread; I really wanted to just give her the perfect loafs, but I knew that I wouldn't be able to get out of the kitchen carrying good bread, not with the Capitol cameras watching. That was part of how we were never able to store away goods for ourselves, even if we wanted to. The government always kept merchants like bakeries under careful watch, making sure we were not cheating the system. They were stationary cameras, nothing particularly fancy, but even my father had to be careful and block the view whenever people came by to trade. However, if the bread was burnt, then there would be nothing to do but throw it away. And of course, I knew a better option than just throwing it to the pigs.

I was so lost in my thoughts and plans that I didn't hear my mother come back into the kitchen; she had heard my brother's protestations and had excused herself from the customer for a moment to check what was wrong. What she saw upon entering the kitchen, of course, was me, holding the burnt bread, with an absent expression on my face. And of course, she was angry.

My mother has never been a particularly tender person. Instead, she is rational, free of sentiment. I don't remember many embraces from her growing up, but I do remember her constant prodding for us to be better. My father explains it that she is simply disappointed with the world and wants for us to have better-that it is her way of loving us, constantly demanding that we be better than we are. And when he explains it like that, I can understand. However, when her hand too often hits the back of my head out of frustration at my blunders or she angrily pinches our arms to make us knead faster, I fail to grasp her.

So, when she roughly grabbed my arms and jostled me with her anger, I was not surprised. Nor was I surprised when she shoved me out the door with a slap to the head into the rain, sharply telling me to throw the wasted bread (and the money that we could have made from it) to the pigs.

None of this was unexpected. In fact, it made my plan a lot easier. I would then have a solid excuse to give Katniss the bread without having to explain it later.

The rain ran cold on my bare arms as I walked through the mud towards the pen. She watched me with keen eyes, and under her glare, I suddenly shrank from her intensity. I became afraid. What could I say to her? O Katniss, here is some bread that I burnt for you. Hello, Katniss, I'm the boy who has loved you since I was five. Have some bread, on me. Suddenly, my plans seemed stupid, my tongue heavy and words stuck to my throat. I reached the pen and paused.

Then with a subtle toss, just in case any one was watching, I lobbed the loafs to the grass in her direction. They landed softly in a lump of damp grass, and I couldn't look at her. I was immediately flooded with shame. I had made it worse. I was not even brave enough to hand it to her myself. Full of sudden despair, I simply turned and went back to the kitchen, heavy with my own self-deprecation.

When I glanced out the window again a few moments later, she was gone, and so was the bread. Soon, she came back to school, sullen and silent. In the schoolyard, she sat amongst a cluster of dandelions, while I simmered in self-hatred, knowing she'd never forgive me for being so rude. I didn't blame her at all that she didn't speak to me. I felt happy for her when she began eating lunch with her boy; I was just happy that she had lunch. I felt too ashamed, too unworthy. Why hadn't I been brave enough? I was a fool, and for weeks, months, and years that followed, I remained more or less content to watch her from afar, knowing that I would never have a chance, sour with my own failure.

And we never spoke, until after the reaping.

All of these things swim violently in my mind while I spend hours looking for water.

However, as the air turns chill with the setting sun, I change plans and look around for some kind of shelter. The trees around me are sparse at the bottom, and there are only a few shrubs nearby. For a moment, I consider turning around and heading back up the hill, but then I spot a small knoll, a cavity in the earth. Quickly, I set to work, gathering moss, grass, sticks, branches, whatever I can find. In the fading light, I arrange the undergrowth starting at my feet and working up my legs, covering my body, camouflaging it for the night. My work is slow, and by the time I reach my shoulders, arranging pieces of moss around them, the sky is almost dark. I pull the hood of my jacket over my head and tighten it around my ears. A large leaf-laden branch will cover my head and face, which I have smudged with dirt. If I lie still, in the night if anyone should go hunting for tributes, then I will remain unseen, I hope. Perhaps it actually looks really stupid and obvious and I will be found easily. But this is all I can hope for now that it is dark.

I settle in and sigh, just as the anthem begins ringing out over the night air. Opening my eyes, I see the faces of the fallen tributes flicker into the sky. My heart rate elevates as I wait for the end, for twelve. However, Katniss' face does not appear in the sky. She's still alive, somewhere in the arena. She's still here. Still fighting. And so am I. The thought makes me smile for the moment. And even though I am getting cold from the damp earth, I am able to breathe.

Willing myself to try to sleep, I shut my eyes to the world, and do my best to think of anything other than where I am. I think of home. I think of warm bread. And I think of Katniss.

When I wake from perhaps a few minutes of sleep, I am absolutely frozen, so much so that it stuns me, shuddering from the cold. The dark lies thick over the woods, and silence heavy. I carefully try to move my hands into my jacket to warm them, but it doesn't really help much.

It is so cold. The ground is wet with it, and I am soaking up the chill.

Teeth chattering, I try to shut my eyes to it all. However, it does nothing to stop the shivering of my body.

For a while my resolve to stay put remains firm, yet as the time slowly goes by and the cold reaches into my core, I start to consider my options; I need sleep, but I won't sleep if I am cold. I need warmth, but I have nothing to start a fire, and starting a fire, as Haymitch warned, would mean the end far too soon. What am I supposed to do? Freeze to death? I feel so helpless and useless, like a fawn in the paws of a mountain lion.

I saw a mountain lion once-only once. I was thirteen and had caught a glimpse of her braid disappearing into the trees. Only that one time did I dare try to follow her. I had slipped under the fence scratching my wrist and clamoured into the brush in a mad haste. I just wanted to talk to her, to tell her how sorry I was. How I wish I had gone out in the rain, how I knew I couldn't make it up to her, how I wish I could do it over again. All good intentions.

However, as soon as the woods had closed in over me and the air had thickened, I realized that I couldn't see her; I couldn't hear her; I might as well be prey for her bow myself. In sudden regret I stopped and listened. Nothing. The woods was full of wind and leaves and moving air, but nothing else. She had vanished.

I could have gone home; I probably should have gone home, but I didn't. I waited. Choosing to be stubborn this time, I sat at the base of a tree and waited for her to return, willing to wait hours despite being needed at home. That was the time when I saw the mountain lion; hours had passed; the light was changing, and I must have been sitting downwind, because at dusk it came quiet and steady without any attempt to hide, like big cats normally do. The hide was grey in the fading light and faint clouds of steam rose from its flanks. As it strode along, I noticed quickly that its mouth was full: dangling from the lion's jaws, the body of a small fawn. The lion had the fawn by the throat and carefully walked with its prey. It made me feel a little sick. A baby. Why the baby? Because ...it is easy to catch; it doesn't know yet what lies in the woods. A fawn is ignorant and clumsy. It makes too much noise. It hasn't learned to be mistrustful.

As I watched, suddenly the fawn jostled against its imprisonment. It wasn't yet dead. Surprised, the lion must have loosened its jaws just a little, enough for the fawn to drop a kick to the neck of the lion and fall to the ground. Its shoulder was broken; bone and blood pierced the downy hide, yet it tried to run. Despite its wounds, it tried to escape. Of course the fawn did not make it far. And I stayed quiet till they had gone, then with a sick heart quickly went home.

I didn't go to the woods again after that.

And now, I am in the woods again, vulnerable, frozen, and empty.

Perhaps I can try to sleep when the sun is up, covering myself in the same way. It won't be so cold then. The idea is so seductive, and too soon I resolve to get up and walk up the hill to get my blood moving.

Just when I am about to sit up, I hear the quick sound of footsteps rushing through the fallen leafs and grass. Someone is running. Someone is breathing hard and coming closer. Someone is sobbing. And soon I hear others in pursuit.

Opening my eyes, I see a boy, perhaps thirteen or fourteen, wildly clamouring through the trees. He's breathing so hard that he can't run straight. In the vague moonlight, sweat and tears run in a mingled sheen on his face, terror and desperation caught in horrified expression in his eyes.

And sure enough, I can soon too see a pack of careers, careening after him, gleaming knives and glinting swords in hand. The dark doesn't let me see their features well, but I know who they are. Cato, Clove, Glimmer, Marvel: Districts one and two, they easily catch up with the boy, strange glasses on their faces. They are able to navigate the dark more easily than he can.

With a firm slice, as if he's been practicing, Cato runs his sword along the back of the boys leg cutting his hamstring and sending the boy with a shrill cry flat out on the grass. They are all about 50 feet from my knoll. Suddenly I have forgotten about the cold; I've forgotten everything, my plans, Haymitch's warnings, even Katniss in that moment. All I can see is a fawn trying to run with a broken shoulder. Without much forethought, I try to sit up, but my limbs are so stiff with cold that I can hardly move.

Circling like hounds, the careers kick and cajole the boy. My hands are frozen in fists. They won't grip the tree roots to pull myself up.

"Couldn't keep running?" taunts Clove, digging her heel into the boy's open wound.

"Looks like he's got a lame leg." smirks Glimmer.

"Aw, dear," Cato leans down and lifts the boy's head by the hair. "That's a shame."

"Don't! Don't! Please!" the boy begs, still struggling to breathe. I try to push my legs into the earth, but they don't respond. I can't even breathe, the cold and horror has taken the air out of me.

"No! No! Don't!" Marvel mocks, laughing thinly.

"You don't want to die?" Cato inquires, wryly.

The boy shakes his head: "Please, I just want to go home. Please."

"Well," Cato says with a disturbing amount of calm. "We all want to go home."

Then as if catching himself, Cato glances around as if looking for cameras, and then takes out a small knife.

"You want to go home," Cato repeats. "But that's not going to happen today." I try to squeal out a cry, but my voice only rasps in the icy air. And Cato is too quick for me.

With a setting of his teeth, Cato slices the throat of the boy, quickly, with a rough and fast jerk, like how I have seen Mr Broon the butcher do with a goat that is to be slaughtered.

The rest of the careers fan out around him in shouts of strange delight.

"Oh! Great line!" laughs Marvel, "Were you practicing that one?"

"Nope," Cato stands above the body of the boy that is flooding out blood into the grass. "I'm just that good."

They swagger around the body for a few minutes, waiting for him to fully die. I can't move. The choking sounds churn my stomach and sicken my heart. Cato sighs as if tired.

"Come on," he whispers to the air.

As if in answer, a canon shot hits the night.

"Finally," Clove gives a slight kick to the body and checks the boy's pockets for anything useful. Nothing.

Then as quickly as they came, the careers vanish into the night, taking no notice of me. I suppose my camouflage has succeeded, yet I feel no pleasure from it.

Slowly, I move my limbs up and away from there.

Away from the blood and the body, away from the path of the careers, up the hill again, my heart pounding with unutterable things: there is no use in staying here. Others will mourn him properly. I can't. I'm still here. He is or was an innocent. The real horror of all of this is that I have killed him too, and that in order for Katniss to live, as I plan for her to, then it means that not only will I die (which I have always known) but the rest of them will too.

Suddenly, it feels like by saving one I murder the others. Why her? Why not them? Those questions have been thrown at me from nearly every person that I have confessed my plan to. Haymitch, my avox, Portia.

As I thread through the trees, a wind picks up, and I remember those conversations, the questions the warnings. In particular, I think of Portia.

When I met Portia, I was trying my best to keep all the licking flames of sorrow shut away. If I let myself, then I knew I would dissolve into the fire, like so many of the others I have watched; so many of them simply choose despair and shrink into the true horror of the games: people who so desperately want to live. I don't want to be that. I have had some time to think. I want to remain myself. I want to be brave. I don't know what everyone expects me to be, but I'm not yet overtaken by fear or grief or desperation because of it. I can't be-for her sake. I'm not a fearful person. I'm just..me. My father always told me to be gentle with life, and I suppose that I have heeded his advice. I know that I am not like her at all, or like her boy. They are wild children, hardened and weathered by life in the Seam, desperate, resourceful, keen, clever, and cruel. All the Seam folk are like that, and I would be too if I wasn't a Town boy. Living on the scraps of scarcity tests everything that you are. My family lives on slightly better scraps, but I know all the Seam folk resent us for it. They don't know that we go hungry like them, or that we are only allowed to eat the rotting bread or the stale leftovers. Unlike us, they do not have to look at food all day, beautiful food, all the time; they don't have to touch it, fondle sweet cakes and tarts and rolls, forbidden to even sneak a taste. But I don't blame them for how they hate us. I would too if I were them, I suppose. My life is so different from hers. Or rather, it was. She lived by her own resourcefulness and wit. She and the boy would often come by my father's bakery with squirrels or berries, their skin brown from the sunlight, and I would steal a look at her sometimes catching her eye. She's cold, but it is the kind of hostility that you wouldn't begrudge an animal that crosses an intruder in the forest; anyone is a threat; everyone is either a foe or simply a neutral: none are friend. Except for the boy I guess, and of course her family. She's a wolf guarding her den with its vulnerable pups, hungry and thin. And he trots beside her, lean and grey, just as guarded and just as bold. The Seam kids always stick together. I never was brave enough to reach out and speak to her. I should have.

Now she is somewhere, waiting, just like me. We aren't altogether different now. Our lives used to be so distinct; now they have the same path.

Yet, there is still a difference; death isn't for her. She is a survivor. And she will be. And I have to help her survive. Suddenly all of that doesn't seem so noble anymore.

"Why her, Peeta?" I can almost hear Portia's smooth voice asking me.

Portia: dressed in deep purple with silver edgings and eyelashes, tall and slim, with eyes and pupils that seem much larger than they should.

When I had met her, she had said to me:

"Peeta Mellark, I'm sorry that this happened to you, and I'm sorry for whatever trouble is to come."

She had taken a sheet that I hadn't noticed her holding and draped it around my shoulders, covering my nakedness in the prep room.

"I am Portia, your stylist. My job is to help you make an impression for the sponsors. I work in collaboration with Cinna. He is the Lead stylist for District 12."

"And he's with Katniss?"

"Yes, Cinna and I will be coordinating our efforts for the both of you. District 12 has been ignored for so long. We want to unify our work in order to make sure no one forgets about you."

"Both of us."

"Yes of course."

"Now, Mr Mellark, how are you?"

"I...I don't know. I'm not exactly feeling well but..." I was not being sarcastic; her expression and tone dissolve any of that. "I know that the odds aren't in my favour. The tributes from 12 don't usually do well, and I...well...I'm not...I'm a baker...you can't exactly kill someone with baking...I know that I am likely going to die...My mentor made that pretty clear."

"You're right, Mr Mellark. The odds aren't in your favour, but that doesn't mean that I am going to give up on you. And you shouldn't either. You're so young. I promise you, Mr Mellark, I shall do all that I can to help you. I want you to survive."

Do I want to survive?

"Don't you want to live, Mr Mellark?"

"Of course I do, but not if..." the sentence snuffed out before I could finish it. I couldn't even utter it. How can I?

"Not if what?... Mr Mellark..."

"You don't need to call me Mr Mellark."

"I know. Except I want you to feel that I am at your service, not the other way around. The Capitol has taken everything from you today, but that doesn't mean that I can't still see you as human. You merit the respect due to any human, even if they mean for you to die."

"Well, I don't mind Peeta, then. Mr Mellark sounds too much like my father."

"Very well, Peeta, I realize that given where you are and what your next few days will be like, I know it is the last thing in the world that you want to do, but I need you to trust me. Please believe me when I say that I truly want you to make it. However, in order for me to do my best at my job, I need to know you, as much as possible. I'm not explaining this very well. Cinna does a better job of it. You see, the Capitol wants you to be as just a tribute, not a boy, not a human, just a tribute, a sacrifice. They want to make you less than human so that they can feel legitimate in sentencing 23 of you to death every year. It is easier to do if you aren't real, if you aren't human. If the world just sees you as a flat glossy tribute with no ties and no hope, then there is no ...Well, they don't think twice about it."

"I see"

"So whatever you can tell me about yourself will help me, whether its good or bad, I can use it to help your image. Cinna wants to craft you both in such a way so that you are unforgettable. It gives you much better odds in the actual games."

"But two can't walk out of there. Only one can survive."

"And I want that to be you."

"But...I can't be the one to survive."

"Why not?"

"Because...Katniss needs to be the one to go home."

"Katniss?"

"Yes."

"Why? Why not you?"

"She has a family to care for. Her sister. She volunteered for Prim. She deserves to go home."

"But..."

"No, she does. No one needs me. My family. I have brothers to help my father."

"Peeta, why?"

"It would take a while to explain."

"I have plenty of time before we need to get you ready for the tribute parade. Please. Tell me."

With a breath, I had told her: everything.

"I don't know how to explain this... well...you see...I know Katniss. Or I guess it is more that...I have known _of_ her all my life. My dad knew her mother. Actually he was supposed to marry her, until she met Mr Everdeen. But I saw Katniss at school, and I ...I guess I have had a crush on her since I was a kid."

"A crush? Is a mere crush worth getting killed?"

"No. It's more than that."

"Then what is it? You love her?"

"She never noticed me, but I never stopped caring...I never stopped wanting to help. I care about what happens to her. I want her to be safe. So...now that we're both here, I can't let her die, if I can help it. If I went home and she wasn't there, I...I made my mind up about this long before the reaping ever happened. I will do what it takes to help her survive. No one can change my mind about it."

"...Well...No. Of course not. Not if that is what you really wish. You will still allow me to help you as much as I can, won't you?"

"Yeah, there's no harm in that, I suppose. I just thought you should know from the start. My strategy is never going to be for me to win. I want to last as long as I can, but it won't last. You can tell your partner that too."

"O Cinna has plans of his own of course, but yes, I will relay your wishes. Does she know all this too? How you feel?"

"No! No! I've never said anything!"

"And you don't want her to know?"

"I don't think that would help her at all. The games are complicated enough."

"Yes, well, let me think on that. As I said before, any and all information can be used in the games. It might end up helping you stay alive for as long as possible."

Suddenly, I trip over a root in the dark, and end up sprawled on the forest floor. My memories of Portia trickle into silence as I look around me in the night.

I hear the hum of a hovercraft coming for the body.

So much guilt and shame fills me.

Is this what it will come to? Am I willing to let everyone else die, so that she can live? Slumping down on a log to catch my breath, I sigh.

Yes.

There is no question.

There is no debate.

This is not about being noble.

There is no room for nobility here.

There is no right way to do this.

The only path I have is to try and make her way to survival sure and certain.

That's all.

That's love, I suppose.

That is all that the games have left for me.


	2. Chapter 2

"Do not let me hear

Of the wisdom of old men, but rather of their folly,

Their fear of fear and frenzy, their fear of possession,

Of belonging to another, or to others, or to God.

The only wisdom we can hope to acquire

Is the wisdom of humility: humility is endless.

The houses are all gone under the sea.

The dancers are all gone under the hill."

T.S. Eliot, Four Quartets, "East Coker"

The noise I make clamouring through the woods in the dark would alert anyone.

With each step I try to remind myself of my plan; it takes more effort than it did a little while ago.

However, in time, I remember what I am doing.

I can hear Haymitch's voice, cajoling yet invested.

"You have a plan, boy?" Haymitch had glared at me, his amber drink halfway to his lips.

After the tribute parade, he and I had sat alone on the couches in the District 12 penthouse. Katniss had gone to bed. Effie had left, with Portia and Cinna, all three drunk on their victory of the chariot parade. I couldn't sleep, so I wandered the floor, until I found Haymitch sitting in the quiet.

"Aren't you supposed to be the one giving us plans?" I had responded.

"That depends. You seem smart, and you definitely seem to know what you are doing, I guess. What is your approach? Honestly."

"Do I have to have one?"

"You've got one, whether you are aware of it or not."

"I suppose I'm just trying to survive for as long as possible."

"Survival. No matter what?"

He was testing me.

"That depends." I had retorted.

"Depends on?"

"On what happens in the games, right?"

"You're a coy one, aren't you? You never seem to be sly, yet you're just as vague and protective as she is. Only you're better at hiding it."

"I'm not trying to be coy."

"Then come out with it. What is your real plan here?"

"Why are you suddenly interested?"

"Let's just say I've seen the light...Now out with it."

I paused. Why does everyone want to know what I will do?

"I'm planning on...being me. I don't want to turn into an animal in there."

"Noble idea. But who are you really? You're not an animal?"

"I'm not a killer. I know that about myself."

"You won't last long with that attitude."

"I just mean that I don't want to kill unless I absolutely have to."

"To survive?"

"I suppose, yes."

"Then what are you doing with Katniss?"

"What do you mean?"

"I'm not blind, boy. Secret conversations in the garden. A kiss after the parade. Holding hands. What's going on? As your mentor, I need to know."

"Nothing. Cinna told us to hold hands."

As I walk down a steep bank, my mind full of Haymitch's voice, I try not to remember her kiss on my cheek. It had stung, but I had been able to think of nothing else but her lips since then.

"Well, boy, it sure looks either you are trying to bait her for the games or you have something else in mind. If either one of these are the case, then I need to know about it. But I will warn you, she's not a fool to be seduced. She's clever. She'll catch wind of it immediately and make you pay for it in the games."

"I'm not baiting her."

"If you are telling the truth, then you're an idiot."

"What do you mean?"

"Peeta...It is foolish to entertain sentiment."

"I'm not sure that I follow..."

"Don't be a damn fool! If you have feelings for her, then try your best to forget them."

"...Why?"

"Because, caring for anyone in the games will kill you, her, and everyone connected with it. Even if you make it out alive, you'll never be...you'll be dead too."

I remember rumors and stories that I had heard about Haymitch; he knew his district partner and teamed up with her for a stretch of his games; he didn't kill her, but she died once they parted ways. He was warning me then, trying stop me from destroying myself.

"I'm just saying...You need to be smart to win this, not just strong or clever, and getting all caught up in feelings isn't going to help you when it comes down to it. Do you think that you could kill her to go home, because you might have to?"

"Haymitch, I'm not planning on going home."

"Excuse me?"

"I decided. She's going home. Not me."

He had snarked a laugh then.

"Well, I was wrong. You're not smart; you _are_ an idiot. Why the hell would you want to do that?" he argued then almost as if he was arguing with himself: "You've seen her. She's a flipping mess. Just because she volunteered for her sister doesn't mean that she deserves your pity."

"No, it's not pity."

"Then what? Masochism?"

"No. I...I care for her, Haymitch. I want to do my best to make sure she gets home."

"So that's your game?"

"It's not a game to me."

"It is to her. She's watching everyone; everyone's a threat; she won't trust you. She's playing the game."

"I know. I'm used to that."

"...I don't get it."

"I don't expect anyone to understand."

"This is ridiculous."

"Maybe...but I was wondering though if you could help me."

"O I thought you were hell-bent on killing yourself for love."

"I just mean I need help strategizing. It is all well and good for me to want to protect her till the end, but those careers...I don't stand a chance with any one of them."

"Well you're right there."

"Right, so I want to last longer than the first five minutes, and I need to know what to do, how to make it as far as possible."

"So you want me to help you to die at the _optimal_ time?"

"To help me die at the _right_ time, yes."

"You're a fool."

"But will you help me?"

He had stared deep into his empty glass, lost in thought for a moment. Then he replied:

"Yes I will."

And now, with the sun beating down on me, I struggle to remember the plans that he had helped me create. Find water. Live past day one. Let the careers get their blood lust over with. Somehow, join them.

"You will last longer if you have access to resources, and the people who will have all the resources will be the careers. You need to somehow convince them that you are worth keeping around." Haymitch had told me.

"They hate her. After she got that score, she will be on their kill list for certain, and they will want to get rid of her as soon as possible."

I trip along some rocks and scrape my knee. Still I hear Haymitch.

"She won't let you join with her. She won't want the trouble of killing someone from her own district. But if you join with the careers then you can help manipulate where they go and who they hunt."

A mockingjay song echoes out along the trees.

"We need to use your feelings for her as a decoy. Let everyone think you love her, then in the arena, change your game. Careers don't care for love stories, but they might find you interesting if they can use you to get to her...if you can convince them that you are willing to betray her. If you can convince them that you are playing the game to your own advantage, then you might stand a chance. Try to convince them that they won't find Katniss without you. No guarantees boy, but they might be stupid enough or jealous enough of her to buy it. If they think that you have been fooling her, then they might see you as useful."

"What if I can't convince them?"

"Listen…let me talk to some of the career mentors. We might be able to work out a deal."

I hear a soft rushing in the distance, like air but thicker.

"Forget about what you're really feeling for her. Just focus on staying alive first, then keeping yourself and her alive by knowing where the careers go. Eventually, the group will deteriorate. They'll start killing each other once the weak ones are gone. They'll kill you too. But if you can time it so that Katniss is one of the last four tributes, then I think you can trust her to take care of herself from there."

I climb a rocky ledge, and to my utter surprise I find a small stream cascading down the rock face in the dark. Without much thought, I drink from the rushing water, quenching my thirst a bit too fast. It tastes wonderful. I can't get enough of it.

When I have had enough, I feel a little sick, but I try to look around to find some markers or signs for myself so that I can come back here. The stream descends at a slow pace, wandering through the trees; as I follow the bank, it widens into calmer stretches, the trees surrounding bending fall over the water.

I don't really know what I am waiting for. Haymitch told me that he had come to some kind of deal with the careers; he didn't tell me what. Just that I needed to wait until the first day was over, then if I had made it that far then they would likely allow me to join up with them in hopes of finding Katniss.

Near the end of training, Haymitch had taken me aside, leading to a private room in a section of the tribute centre that was foreign.  
"What are we doing?" I had asked.

"We're going to try and broker a deal." He had said with a grimace.

"What do you mean?"

Before he could answer, we entered a room with four other people lounging on chairs.

Haymitch greeted each by name:

"Freema, Jobis, Thia, Finnick."

They had greeted him with a coolness.

Freema, Thia, and Jobis I didn't know. But Finnick, I recognized. He was the victor from a few years back; he had been the youngest victor yet when he won. Now people in the Capitol fawn over him like he is a dessert: men, women, all loved him that year. He was from District 4: not a career district but one that had closer ties to the Capitol than 12. With a drink in hand, Finnick and the others stared languidly at me and Haymitch. What was Haymitch doing?

Then in a moment, I understood. These people were mentors. He is trying to make a deal with other tributes for me, so that I can join with the careers at some point.

"He didn't score well." Freema sipped from her drink.

"He's strong. You can depend upon that." Haymitch had countered.

"Can he make it through the first day?" Jobis, a tall thick man, with purple hair, pinched my arm, as if testing for readiness. "Or is he stupid?"

"He's got some stupidity but he'll make it through." Haymitch glanced at me with distain.

"Why should my tributes bother with him? He might be strong but that doesn't mean much. What does he have to offer?"

Then before Haymitch could reply, I saw my chance to prove myself to them in the lie.

"I can help capture Katniss Everdeen." I had said.

They had all paused, pondering. Then Finnick had spoken out.

"Why would you betray your district partner? Not many do." His voice was ironic and smooth, playful, dark.

"I just want to make it. Everyone does, right? We have to do what it takes." I had replied, hardly believing my words.

Finnick had laughed lightly, then spoke again: "Well, I don't want him. My tributes this year are weaklings. They'll be dead in the first ten minutes. You can try and get him in with 1 and 2, but it's up to Freema and Jobis."

Freema had leaned back in her chair with a disinterested air: "I just don't see how he's an asset. Sure he knows the girl, but what's so peculiar about that. He can't guarantee that he'll find her in the arena."

"No," said Haymitch. "But he can lure her in, perhaps…."

Jobis had cut off Haymitch: "I think this is just a waste of time. Our tributes are strong and clever. And more too, they are all cocky as hell. They won't take too kindly to joining anyone from 12."

"But I can lead them to her." I had jumped in again.

Haymitch had shot a warning look at me. Then he said:  
"Peeta, would you step outside for a moment. I will be with you in a second."

I had obeyed, waiting in the quiet.

When he came out, his face fallen, he had said:

"Well, I got you the deal. Make it through the first day, and you can join the careers. Just be sure to catch them in a good moment. There's no guarantee that any alliances will hold when the games actually start, but I got them to agree to take you on for now."

"How?"

"Nevermind. Just be grateful I did it."

Now, the woods are quiet. In fact, I can hardly believe that I haven't encountered another tribute yet.

I try to think of what is best to do next. Should I offer myself to the careers? Would they respect that? Or should I wait for them to find me? Haymitch couldn't offer me any guidance on this front. Even he can't anticipate what this year's careers will be like. All he could do was tell me that they had come to an agreement and that I needed to join them somehow once things calmed down.

Then, from the midnight quiet, I hear footsteps approaching, two sets.

I jump up and shield behind a tree. Listening, I can make out that it is Marvel and Clove, or at least that is my best guess based on their voices. Clove's voice is low, while Glimmer's naturally inflects too high. And Marvel, his voice is a little nasal. It's funny how those stupid details stay with me now. Of all the things I could have noticed about them...

Then an idea hits me. It's now or never.

With my deepest loudest voice, I call out: "I have a proposition for you."

They both start and whip out their weapons at my voice, but the gully in which I stand allows my voice to be amplified in multiple directions; they can't quite tell where I am, yet. The night shields me for now.

"Who's that?" Clove demands.

"Let me join you and I will deliver you Katniss Everdeen."

"Is that lover-boy?" Marvel snort, unimpressed.

"Is that you twelve?" Clove yells.

"Yes," I reply.

"Well, come out so we can kill you." She says.

"I'd rather not." I reply. Marvel chuckles wryly.

"We'll find you then." she calls.

"Don't we have a deal worked out? You can kill me, I guess, if you want. That's fine, but then you'll never find Katniss." I throw out.

That thought makes them pause.

"You know where she is?" Marvel asks.

"I can help you find her." I say. "We had a deal."

"What if I don't feel like making a deal anymore? What makes you think we can't find her on our own, lover-boy?" Clove barks out.

"You don't know her like I do."

"So?" Marvel returns.

"I know her strategies; I know her impulses. I have known her since I was a kid."

"Yeah, so why would you bail on her? Aren't you supposed to be madly in love?"

"You believed me then?" I ask with some warmth, as if I am laughing.

They again are caught by this.

"What do you mean?" Clove asks.

"Well, we all want to survive, don't we? I'm just doing what it takes to make it."

They whisper to each other. Clove shakes her head.

"You're not going to make it, lover-boy." Clove scoffs.

"Maybe not, but that won't stop me from trying." I reply. "Although I'm surprised that you didn't see through it at the interviews. Didn't your mentor tell you about the deal?"

They look at each other in doubt.

"So what are you proposing?" Clove asks.

"Like I said, I will deliver you Katniss, if you let me join with you." I say.

"What if we refuse and kill you anyway?" Marvel puts forth.

I hesitate for a minute. I'm not sure what to say. I don't really feel that valuable. How can I convince them that I am?

"If you want to find her, then you will need to take me in. Your mentors agreed to it. She's good. Really good. You don't know what she did in the evaluation room to get that eleven. I do. Take me in and I will tell you."

They begin to believe me. The idea of catching the girl on fire starts to seduce and distract them. Bringing up the evaluations was the right thing to do. I can see Clove's face cloud over with jealousy and anger.

I can just hear the gasps of shock and horror coming from the audience watching in the Capitol. Peeta Mellark, the boy in love with the girl on fire, now a traitor, now a liar.

They mutter to each other, trying to decide. Then Clove speaks:

"We'll make a deal with you, Twelve."

I feel my heart pounding hard.

She continues: "You come with us; we'll keep you alive for three days. When the time is up, then we kill you if we haven't killed her first."

"And if we _do_ find her?" I ask.

"Then we kill her, and you get a head start to run away while we do." Marvel smirks.

I feel sick to my stomach. Is this the right thing to do to save her? Three days isn't a lot of time, yet a lot can happen in three days. I don't know. I don't know.

"Fine. Suits me." I manage to get out. With as much fake confidence that I can gather, I swing around the tree and casually walk towards them.

Clove sees me and crosses her arms: "No." she shakes her head.

Marvel looks at her then at me.

I stop and ask "what?"

"You don't get a head start." she counters.

"No?" I tilt my head.

"No," she narrows her eyes. "you get to be the one to slit her throat...and then run away."

My foot falters at the image. Katniss in a pool of flowing blood, Katniss with lifeless eyes, Katniss the fawn with a broken shoulder.

"Still fine." I approach them, keeping a distant but calm expression. "Got to do whatever it takes in the games, right?"

My voice is easy with just the right amount of disinterestedness.

Marvel stares for a moment, then laughs: "You're some actor, twelve. You had most of us ready to kill you just because your love-sick puppy routine made us all sick. "

I nod.

Clove looks me up and down, then gives a nod to Marvel.

Without a word, Marvel then punches me in the mouth. My lips splits, and I taste blood as I reel around to catch my balance. However, Clove swings her foot under me, and I land with heavy thud. She gives multiple hard kicks to my abdomen before I can even crawl or move. I can't breathe. I can't think. Marvel grabs at my shoulders and yanks me to my feet only to punch my cheek hard, knocking me to the ground again.

For a moment, I'm sure that this is it. They are going to kill me here in the woods. They lured me out of hiding with false promises, and I fell for it. I can almost see Haymitch shaking his head at my stupidity.

Marvel pounds my stomach with heavy kicks, and I vomit up bile, choking and sputtering for air.

Then Clove gives a strange laugh, and the two of them back off. I can't breathe or see. Blood flows from my mouth.

"Well, come on then." Clove commands, her voice entertained. "Time to run, Lover-boy." The two of them dart off into the woods again, and I struggle to stand, but somehow I follow, shaking when they aren't looking.

They aren't killing me yet.

They jog what seems to be a circle route slowly sloping around down back to the cornucopia. I try to keep up, but my lungs burn again, and I haven't eaten anything since the morning. I'm starting to realize just how hungry I am, in amidst the pain of my stomach and face.

Watching the two of them run a few feet ahead of me in the dark, through the sweat and blood, I see Clove's hair, dark and long, pulled into a high and tight ponytail, flowing behind her; if I didn't know better, if I was merely glancing, I would almost mistake her for Katniss in the blur. Like Katniss, Clove is small and thin, with long dark hair. Her face is sharp, with eyes so dark that they almost seem black. However, she isn't Katniss. Clove's whole presence exudes a coldness that is so different from Katniss'. For Katniss, the reserve and aloofness comes more from self-protection. For Clove, it is clear that she just hates everyone; it isn't about protection; it is about power. She will have no problem killing anyone to be the victor. Katniss, however, feels the struggle much more sharply.

I suddenly remember her quietly sitting next to me, the night before the games, asking me what I was going to do.

How can you tell someone that you are going to die for her?

I remember she had a sad and deeply disturbed expression.

"I just want to still be me in the games. I don't want them to change me." I had said to her softly.

She had looked at me with a mild confusion and almost horror.

Now, here I am, running with those who seek to kill her, in danger of being killed myself any moment. Am I still me? I need to keep this straight. Already too many lies are clouding in around me. I just need to focus on Katniss, despite the pain that is now spreading to my head; if I can remember Katniss, then I will remember who I am and why I am here.

We reach the edge of the field, the cornucopia glowing in the moonlight. Cato sees our approach and comes to meet us mid-field.

"Ah! I see lover-boy decided to hold up his side of the deal." He draws a dagger. His voice is hostile, despite seeing that I am in bad shape from the beating.

Clove holds up a hand.

"He's promised to help us track Everdeen." she explains.

"Isn't he supposed to be in love with her? He's not going to do that. My mentor said not to trust anyone from 12." Cato isn't convinced.

I step in, noticing that Cato's knife spinning more and more in his fingers.

"You won't be able to find her without me." I say with a similar disinterestedness, wiping my mouth with my sleeve.

"Is that so?" Cato inquires with a dangerous look in his eyes.

"Yes." I assert simply.

"He said that the lover-boy stuff was an act. I gave him three days to find her or we kill him." Clove says.

Cato looks me up and down: "Did you find him like this?"

"Of course not." Clove snorts.

"Good." Cato says. He pulls me in by the collar suddenly. "Don't forget lover-boy. You belong to us now, whether you're telling the truth or not." And to punctuate his statement, he slams his fist into my eye still holding me with his other hand by the collar. "You will do as we say." He violently pushes my body to the ground and pounds my head against the ground.

"You understand, lover-boy?"

I can't even speak; my brain is ringing.

However, Cato backs off as suddenly as he came.

"This should be fun," he remarks to Clove as they walk back to their supplies. "We'll see how long he lasts."

Marvel gives me a half-hearted kick to get me up, and we follow them to the fire that Glimmer has gotten blazing with a tin of gasoline and a box of matches.

They settle in around the fire and begin to open cans of food that they have found in the Cornucopia. Marvel gives me a shove to tell me where to sit, slightly back from them, but near enough for them to watch me.

Without really thinking, I bend forward to reach for a can of food; I'm hungry. Now that I'm with the careers, in my mind it makes sense that they would share what they have. However, I'm mistaken.

A sharp knife slices along my arm, speeding past to land in the ground a few yards away. Blood begins to flow, and I look up to see Clove and her empty throwing hand.

"Just because you're here, doesn't mean you get the same as us, Twelve." Cato remarks. "We do this like it is in Panem. You're the lowest district; you get our scraps, if there are any."

I say nothing, in shock mostly.

Then I rip part of my shirt to bind up the wound. What have I done? This is not any better than being alone. They are going to slice me up bit by bit before the end. This was really stupid. I was so stupid to think that I could somehow manipulate them. They still hold all the power.

Clove retrieves her knife, but then on a whim it seems tosses it to me, saying:  
"Let's see you throw this. See if you can hit a target with the right end."

"What target?" I manage to say.

Cato jumps in: "This one." He grabs the boy from district three. I hadn't noticed him. He was seated further away from the fire. Cato pushes the boy up against the silver wall of the cornucopia and forces his arm out.

"Hit his hand," Cato commands. The boy looks mortified, yet he doesn't try to run or even resist. He just looks at me with glittering eyes.

"What?" I stumble.

"Hit his hand. If you can. Or are you too afraid that you will miss?"

This starts the rest of the careers to launch into a raining torrent of verbal attack upon me, taunting, cajoling, trying to distract me so I will miss.

If I miss and hit the side of the cornucopia, then I likely will get killed even more quickly. They will see me as weak and useless to them, besides the lie about Katniss. They aren't stupid, I am realizing now.

If I miss and hit his torso, then he's dead, eventually. Can I live with that?

"What good are you, twelve? Show us what you've got." Cato taunts circling me.

"Go on! Go on! Throw it."

"Come on!"

"Go on! Go on!"

"Throw!"

"Just throw it."

"He's so weak."

A deep anger floods me; I just want them to stop; for a moment, I stop thinking; I open my eyes and look at the boy's hand. Then without taking my eyes off of it, I throw the knife as hard as I can.

The boy screams.

The knife pierces his palm.

The careers go silent.

My heart splits.

"Well," Cato remarks. "That's surprising."

I turn around, trying to breathe. Clove looks taken aback.

The others also begin to look at me differently. Have I impressed them at last?

Somehow, their conversation turns from me, and I have a moment to despise myself. I walk to the boy from three, and offer him a rag from the ground to bind up his hand.

"I'm sorry." I tell him.

He says nothing, but wordlessly goes back to his place by the fire, trying to stop the bleeding.

I slump to the ground, overwhelmed by what I have just done.

Who am I?

Why did I do that?

Was it for Katniss? What was all of that about?

I want to let the tears in my eyes go, but I cannot.

Then from the din of conversation, I realize what they are saying.

"What did you see in your jog?" Cato presses.

"Looks like someone is starting a fire up the west ridge. A few kilometers away. We saw the glow." Clove reports coolly.

Cato claps his hands and hoots, careening over to pick up his sword.

"Perfect! What a way to finish the night!" He shouts.

The rest of them follow suit, expect for Three. He just sits trying to work the knife out of his hand without fainting. I'm not sure what to do.

Marvel gives me direction.

"Grab a knife, twelve." He instructs me to the cornucopia. "We're going hunting."

Hunting. The word makes me think of Katniss, though in a very different way. We are hunting people now, not animals.

I don't have a lot of time to think. There is only time for gut reactions. So I run to the cornucopia and grab the nearest knife I can find, then turn and join them as they run to the woods from the clearing.

It is difficult to keep up with them for a while; they run like deer, silent and steady of pace. However, when we reach the ridge, they stop and whisper to each other. In the distance through the trees, I can just make out the smudge of a faint light. I am surprised that they even noticed it; the light is so small and indistinct. Even though the night is dark, I doubt I would have seen it myself.

From there on, we walk quietly, making our way towards the prey with cautious careful silence. Thankfully, I am not the only one who makes noise. Cato is so big that he can't help but make some noise as he walks. Even Glimmer, tall and lean, makes a little noise. It is only Clove who is absolutely silent as she moves...unnervingly.

It takes us a long time to descend the ridge then climb back up the ascending hillside towards the fire. If I were alone, then I certainly would lose my way. Clouds have covered up the stars tonight, so there is no way to really tell what direction we are going.

I suppose the gamemakers like it this way. They only give us so much to go on. They want as much bloodshed and confusion as possible. Let the weak ones get lost and wander into traps, just like the one that we are arranging for this tribute by the fire.

I start to sweat. The hike up the hill is straining, and my body is already struggling. I have to stop a few times to catch my breath, even though we are walking extremely slow. The careers don't seem to notice. They are all trained on the glowing light that is increasing in clarity as we draw nearer.

"Do you have any water?" I whisper to Marvel who is a few feet from me. He shoots me a sharp glare, then with annoyance tosses me a flask with water. I pause and choke back the entire flask. Wiping my mouth, dried blood on my fingers and face, I take a long breath. Then I step forward.

It feels like my calf has been sliced.

I fall to the ground, wordlessly and surprisingly quiet.

Something had caught my leg, something painful.

I struggle a little, gasping agains the pain, then with exhaustion, I simply turn to examine my leg, despite its throbbing.

A snare.

It is a small snare, but somehow it was large enough to catch my boot and twist my ankle away from my leg. Trying to be as quiet as I can without alerting the others, I pick at it, until I remember my knife. Marvel glances back at me, and mouths at me profanities.

I point to my leg.

"Snare!" I whisper. "Be careful."

Why am I warning him? Don't I hate him? Aren't I supposed to let him die before all of this is over?

He pauses and then sees the snare and understands. Quietly he scampers up to the others and warns them to watch their feet, leaving me to free myself.

I scrape my knife along the strands that cut into my ankle, and manage eventually to free myself.

Rubbing my ankle, I try to stand, and hobble up the rest of the hill. I can just make out the shadows of the careers against the fire. They have reached it.

While I limp in their direction, I realize something, despite the multiple chaotic thoughts that punch through me.

I remember seeing Katniss practicing snares during training. I remember watching her fingers tying a particular kind of knot-just like the knot that I have struggled to undo around my ankle. In the middle of the darkness and movement, my heart freezes. She was here. Before I can dwell too much on the panic that I feel at the thought, I hear voices rising more distinctly now from the fire.

"No! No! Please! Please don't kill me! I was just so cold!" a girl's voice quivers in the chilly air. I limp up to the firelight, and she sees me behind them. She catches my eyes.

"Please! Please help me." She speaking to me, even though the careers think it is directed at them. They taunt her for a brief amount of time until one of them leaps in to slice her throat. Yet all the time her eyes stay fixed on mine. Even when the knife pierces her skin and carves through her neck, her eyes stay on me, even while she screams. For a moment, nothing else exists. And I cannot break the gaze of the girl.

How can anyone think that this is ever right? How can anyone ever bear to endure this? This is too much. This costs too much. I realize more and more than I won't just die here. It is going to cost me all that I am. There is always a price to be paid in the games, even if you don't win. Especially if you don't win.

Then I hear the others beginning to move off into the trees; somehow I follow them, their laughter echoing hollow in the air.

"What held you up, lover-boy?" Clove questions.

"Snare." I answer.

"So Marvel says." She eyes me, narrowly.

"It's Katniss's snare." I tell her the truth, knowing it will continue my lie, knowing every step I take is one closer to dying myself.

"Really? How do you know?"

"The knot. She's got a specific knot that she uses. I remember seeing it in training."

Clove nods, only slightly convinced: "Well, if that's true then good. She was here at some point."

"She'll be back in the daylight." I tell her.

"Oh?"

"She sets snares for catching food. She'll come in the morning to check them."

Glimmer and Cato interrupt us.

"Are you sure she's dead?"

"I didn't hear a cannon?"

"She's dead. Where I sliced her? She's dead."  
They banter. Then I speak up: "I go check and finish her off." I need to go back. I can't let one of them go back. It needs to be me. For so many reasons it needs to be me.

They pause for a moment, then nod.

With knife suddenly heavy in my hand, I limp back to the girl. Blood is seeping out from her wound, and she's choking on it, struggling, writhing on the ground in the firelight.

I kneel down next to her.

She sees me, her eyes somehow still steady.

Then I put the knife gently on the ground and lean in to her ear so no one but she can hear me.

"I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry." I whisper a sob, an honest sob at last, coming out. "Just hold my hand. That's it. Look at the trees. Look at the leafs. They are dancing in the breeze. Look at the night. It's beautiful." I whisper in her ear. "I'm here. You're not alone. I'm sorry. You are not alone." Her hand grips me tightly.

I keep whispering until her hand goes limp and her choking grows silent. It takes a while. Longer than I would wish for anyone. Then a cannon hits the air.

Wiping my tears quickly, I stand and grab my knife, dipping it a little in the gathered pool so as to continue the lie.

Then into the trees, I walk, willing my heart to think of nothing but Katniss-just Katniss. None of this will ever make sense. None of this will ever be right. Nothing of what I do here will ever be okay. However, I cling to my heart's plan like a drowning man. I'm here to get her to the end. She will be the only thing to keep me sane in this madness. Katniss, Katniss, I even think I whisper her name, hoping that somewhere in the dark she is safe and far, far away from here. How I do hope she is so far away! I hope that I never ever see her again.


	3. Chapter 3

"Footfalls echo in the memory, down the passage we did not take,

Towards the door we never opened, into the rose garden."

T.S. Eliot "Burnt Norton" Four Quartets.

Dawn is just brushing the sky with a gentle deep purple when we return to the cornucopia. Cato, Clove, Marvel, and Glimmer seem worn out, for they don't really talk much. They simply slump by the embers of the fire, pick at a few remains of the canned food, then each in his turn, falls asleep. All except for Glimmer who is first on watch, they suddenly shrink from bloody brutal warriors into children again. The moment sleep hits their faces and the muscles relax, they all suddenly look so different. Even Clove, though she grips a knife while asleep. Glimmer gives me a half-hearted comment that I might as well sleep if I want, that she has the watch covered. However, my stomach is once more reminding me that I need food. Quietly, I gather up whatever scraps remain from the cans, and sit in the shadow of the cornucopia, my back against the wall, watching the sunrise, eating the slim scraps. Glimmer chooses to sit further away, near the middle of the clearing, watching the woods, listening and fingering her arrows. She's beautiful in the morning light; I can't stand to look at her; if only every time I look at these people I didn't see the blood on their faces and hands to remind me of what has passed in the first day and night of the games. It is funny how one day and one night can feel so much longer, so much more eternal. And too, it is funny how much can change in that time.

Twelve people are dead. Twelve kids. I wonder if the gamemakers are happy with how it all has gone so far. They don't seem to be interfering too much yet. They are just letting us kill off each other. And so far, that hasn't been a problem. So far, all the death around me has a stink and taint of selfishness and greed. We're all greedy for life. Even me. There's an instinct to want to survive-everyone wants to live. Is that so wrong?

I think of the girl last night, her steady eyes and pulsing blood. She wanted to live. And I let her die.

Suddenly, my heart is already so weary, and I doubt myself.

Will I be able to do what I have set out to do? Or am I too weak? Will I just become like everyone else and in the end seek to save myself, just to live?

Without realizing it, my thoughts turn to Gale Hawthorne as the sky turns yellow. I remember him as a steadily increasing presence around Katniss as she and I got older. He wasn't in love with her then. They were just wolves that had discovered each other in the hunt, and recognizing kin they joined forces. Everyone knew that they went to the woods together to hunt, even though no one talked about it openly. At my father's door, holding squirrels and nuts in his hands, he would glance at me with distain and indifference. If he were here in the arena, then he would know better what to do. How to protect her. He's been doing that for so long. He's probably watching me on the screen, despising me even more for joining the careers, for betraying her. He doesn't know what my real intent is. He can only judge from his safe distance. I remember the first time Gale came to our door when my father wasn't there.

"Yes?" I had answered it instead. Gale had looked taken aback. Katniss wasn't there; he was alone with his game bag.

"Mr Mellark home?" His voice low and brusque.

"Where's Katniss?" I had asked without thinking.

"What's it to you?" He glared slightly.

"I...well...she's usually with you isn't she?" I had suddenly felt like I was the intruder, stepping into territory that didn't belong to me.

"She's sick." He said.

I wasn't sure if I believed him.

"Is Mr Mellark home?" again.

"No. It's just me and my brother today. My parents are in the square till later tonight."

Gale had furrowed his brow, unsure of what to do, of whether he could trust me to barter and trade.

"What do you have?" I had asked.

"Two squirrels."

"What does my father usually give?"

Gale had then looked impatient.

"I'll just wait for Mr Mellark."

"Won't the meat go bad?"

He had glared at me again.

"He usually gives us small loafs for squirrels."

I had nodded, then gone looking for the loafs. I didn't understand it then, but I do now. Gale had been so unsure of me not just because I was a Merchant boy, but I was younger and both he and Katniss are proud, despite having little to eat. Having to come to my father, an elder, for trade is less of a humiliation than it is for them to come to me, a boy around their age, who somehow seems to have more than them. To them, and to Gale, I'm not trustworthy. I'm always potentially in league with peacekeepers or ready to sell them out if I don't like something they bring; they see me as a child as spoilt as one can be in district 12. He must still see me that way even now in the games.

I had returned to the door:

"Make sure Katniss gets this one." I had managed to say, despite feeling so tremendously intimidated. I had held out a loaf with raisins, seeds, and nuts, like the ones I had burnt so long ago. There was only one left in our stock for the day; the other loaf was merely wheat, but I wanted Katniss to have the nut loaf, if she even remembered me and the loaf in the rain.

Gale had snatched them with a curt laugh that signified that he would do whatever he liked with the loaves and that I should mind my own business about them and Katniss.

But for some reason I had persisted:

"Have this too." I offered a medium sized white roll. "You can split it if you want. White bread is pretty good."

"These are fine." Gale had turned away and descended the steps, without taking the extra gift. "Two loaves for two squirrels. That's the trade." His voice, decided and curt.

Then he was gone.

In the evening when my father had returned, I told about the exchange of loaves.

"Seam people don't like debt, Peeta." He had explained.

"But it wasn't debt."

"To Gale, he'd view it as a favor to repay. And he doesn't want you or anyone to have that power over him."

"But I wouldn't."

"I know, son. But he, and Katniss for that matter, both...well...kindness is suspect when you're trying to survive. You are especially kind, my boy. Thus, in our world, everyone will suspect you of having your own agenda."

"That's not fair."

"No, but that shouldn't stop you from being kind anyway."

"But he didn't take the extra roll."

"No. But he doesn't have to for it to be kindness. Your heart was kind in the offer. That's all anyone can ask for."

Kindness.

Where is there room for kindness now?

Licking gravy off my fingers from the sparse leftovers, I feel so far from kindness. My family will be watching the games, probably shocked that I have made it this far, but also surprised at my uncharacteristic turn-coat actions. I'm sure they are all confused as to what I am doing and why. No doubt my father, most of all, is confused, though I think perhaps he more than anyone else would be able to guess at what I am really doing: he knows my heart better than anybody.

He went to see Katniss, after the reaping, before he came to say goodbye to me.

"I took her some cookies, Peeta." He had said, his hands shaking and his eyes planted on the carpet.

"Okay." What can you say to someone that you will never see again?

"She's going to need her strength and..."

"You wanted to thank her?"

"For the squirrels? Yes, of course. But more than that... I...I'm sorry son."

"Right."

"You and I both know..." he had started, but then a sob had choked his voice.

I nodded; Katniss was and is the daughter he would never have; she is the child of his first love; she is the hope of district 12; she always had a place in my father's heart, despite his distance; she would be the one to survive; both he and I knew that already without speaking it. He had gone to her, as a father would, to commission her to return, even if he wouldn't be able to say it to her. He could have no such hopes for me.

"O Peeta!" My father had thrown his arms around me, weeping deeply into my neck. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"I know." tears on my face.

"I want you to come home, son. I do. But..."

"Dad, I know. I will do what I can for her."

"I'm so sorry."

"It isn't your fault."

"O what can I do?"

"Nothing. Just take care of everyone, ok?"

"Don't give up too soon." His voice had quivered violently. "Don't. Don't."

His hands had reached to cup my cheeks, wet with tears.

"Son, I love you. Just remember that in the end. You are loved. No matter what they say."

"...I know."

"Just remember that."

"I will try."

The peacekeeper was coming.

They will all be watching, maybe even now, as I sit in the shadow of the cornucopia.

Suddenly, I feel so utterly alone, despite the sleeping bodies nearby. I'm cut off from everyone that I love, by my own will. I've chosen it this way. And only now am I beginning to see that it is a lonely path to take, to die for someone who doesn't care for you and will never even know that you are going to sacrifice everything for her. Maybe when she has won and gets to watch the recap with Caesar Flickerman, she will get to see more of what happened, if it happens the way I hope that it does.

Somehow, I need to get through these three days, masquerading as if I am tracking Katniss, and then somehow turn on them and take out as many as I can before they take me out. They have given me a knife, but that's not enough at the moment. I need to have some kind of advantage over them all. Somehow. I need to stay alert and watch for a moment of vulnerability, then I will...what?

Kill them?

That's what the cost is for all of this love? I have to kill these kids.

I wish I was already dead now, so I wouldn't have to continue with all of this.

But still, like the steady pounding of my heart, Katniss, and the thought of her being safe and whole at home again, free, that thought is enough to keep me here.

She'll probably marry Gale when she gets back. So many people think that they are already lovers, though I am not sure. Katniss has always seemed so above romance or affection, except when it came to Prim. Prim is the only one who receives Katniss's caresses and smiles, her true smiles. No one else can bring that forward. Not even Gale. And she is always so distant with everyone, so caught up in her own thoughts, that it is hard to imagine them as intimate lovers. They often seem like circling wolves, nipping and snarling at each other, impatient, brash, and guarded. Yet, they do have a kind of intimacy, an understanding, that I have envied from afar. He clearly knows her best. She clearly understands him and sees how similar they are. So they protect each other. I don't doubt that he will claim her when she returns, though it might be harder to do than he thinks. She's slippery at the best of times.

I almost wish I could be alive to watch him try to pin her down to marry him. It would be a remarkable feat to get her to willingly nestle against his heart in marriage.

District 12 has an quiet attitude towards marriage that the Capitol doesn't share. In 12, marriages are solemn and small, with only the couple and perhaps a friend or two to sign documents. Toastings are always completely private. There is no party. No dress. No cake. No music. Just the couple burning and eating pieces of bread in the night. When we first arrived in the Capitol and Effie was arranging for our car to take us to the Tribute centre, I glanced around me and saw a woman surrounded by people staggering about and shouting in a lavish, enormous dress, much more extravagant than the strange clothing that the Capitol people usually wear. Effie had noticed my stare, and had explained that it was a wedding party. I remember thinking it a grotesque display, so different from home.

I wonder what kind of dress Katniss will wear when she marries Gale, or if she will even wear a dress. And with this, the image of Katniss in her blue dress at the reaping flashes into my mind. Sad, beautiful, tragic, solemn, desperate:

"I volunteer as tribute!" she cried then.

It had all happened so fast. Prim's name being called, Katniss attempting to beat her way through the crowd to Prim, then Katniss's voice, trembling and violent, calling out, volunteering to die in her sister's place. Volunteers are so rare in Twelve. Everyone had backed away from her immediately, staring, seeing her beauty and courage clearly, but also her deep love.

In that moment, she _was_ love.

Pure, sweet, love, willing to die.

I remember being so fixed upon her when she climbed the stage, trying to be brave. She truly was love.

Then I heard Effie.

"Peeta Mellark." her shrill voice across the square.

My heart had stopped.

And I think...I truly think that I decided, right there and then, to be love too. To die. To not let Katniss go to the slaughter. Yet, it wasn't a clear cognitive thought. It was simply a feeling of cold, like the chill that creeps in at autumn with a sadness so unnameable.

I was almost glad that no one volunteered for me.

Yet, the bitterness of where I am now does not feel like love. All of these memories ebb and flow through my mind as I watch the shadows and the light.

Now, the morning has turned grey with the sun behind a cloud. Glimmer rouses Clove, and together they wake Cato and Marvel.

"She might be gone already. We should have just staked out there, where he saw the snares." Cato says. They are clearly discussing a return to the woods to begin tracking Katniss.

"Why didn't lover-boy bring it up last night?" Cato growls.

"He did." Clove replies. "He told me. But we can't track properly in the dark."

They look over at me, with distaste.

"Well then," Cato reaches for his sword. "Let's go before it gets too light. And grab some supplies. We aren't coming back until she's dead."

"Come on, then, lover-boy." Clove mocks, as they being to gather weapons, food, and blankets in small packs that bind around their waists and sit comfortably in the smalls of their backs.

With pain, I stand and hobble after them. My body is stiff from sitting still, but the blood flow in my wounds has stopped mostly. My ankle still throbs, but I can manage it better than the night before. I stuff a few bags of nuts into my pockets, hoping that they won't notice it. Glancing over at the boy from three, I see that he has gotten the knife from his hand, and now sleeps pale and still in the grass.

Cato gives him a kick and tells him to guard the cornucopia and continue with the plan. What plan it is I have no idea.

But with little more ceremony, we leave him behind and trot off to the woods.

In the morning haze, we slowly cross the valley and climb the hill once more, to where the snare caught my foot.

The air is damp, and a low mist hangs over the grass. When we arrive, the careers spend several minutes carefully picking at the area, searching for a sign of her.

Eventually, they find it.

A snare about sixty feet from the one that caught me sits with a dead rat-like thing hanging from the band. Because the rodent is still there, they quickly determine that she hasn't been back to check the snares.

"Find a conspicuous place to hide," Cato commands. "We'll wait for an hour or two. If she doesn't come back, we'll start chasing her."

Cato and Clove hunker down in a cluster of shrubs, while Glimmer and Marvel, angry to be burdened with me, scowl as we hide in a patch of high grass.

For a while, everyone is silent-one edge.

However, as time ticks by, they start to relax a little bit. Glimmer and Marvel, who both had been crouched ready to strike, sit down to rest, silently fingering their weapons.

Eventually, I ask something that has been on my mind for a while.

"So what's it like in one?"

"What?" Glimmer asks tersely.

"In one? What's it like?"

Marvel shakes his head and scoffs.

"Better than anything you've ever seen, twelve." he remarks.

"Better than the Capitol?" I ask.

"Nothing's better than the Capitol," Glimmer chimes, as if it is a line she has been taught for years.

"Okay." I let it go. However, Marvel picks up the thread.

"We are the best that the districts can ever be."

"Do you really get to eat golden flakes for breakfast?" I ask. Sometimes stupid rumours circulate about other districts, strange ideas that seem impossible. No one knows if they are true. No one can ever go to verify and then return.

"Just shut up, twelve." Marvel warns.

I nod silently, not in agreement, but in understanding.

A twig snaps in the woods, and immediately, we all freeze.

However, after a few moments of deadly silence, Marvel peeks up to see that it is only another rodent, drawn to the smell of rotting flesh. We watch for a while, but then the forest grows quiet again, and the sun has risen full in the sky, casting a heat that is quickly makes the back of my neck sweat.

Soon, Cato loses patience and darts out of his hiding spot.

"Come on." he commands. "Let's track her. She's obviously not coming back. It's too late in the morning. Twelve, you lead the way, since you know so much about her strategy."

He mocks me, as if he knows that I am bluffing, yet he doesn't kill me. Some part of him must believe that I know what I am doing.

With fear, I scan the area looking for signs that would help me. Nothing.

But really, in the grand scheme of it all, I'm not supposed to find her. I'm not supposed to track her properly even if I knew how. I will simply lead them away. Deep into the woods, for three days, then, when we are all out of supplies, then I will have no choice but to fight them, and take whatever comes. If I even make it that far, then it will be an accomplishment.

Without much more deliberation, I say:

"Katniss won't stay near where everyone else is. She will strike off on her own. She'll head for the most remote spot in the arena and hide there until every one is gone."

"So where would she go?" Clove jabs, sounding testy.

"Where would you hide if you had your choice?" I ask.

She glances around from our place on the hillside.

"I'd probably head somewhere with a good vantage point but sufficient cover."

Good. That's clever.

"Right," I say. "So what options do we have? There's the lake, but with no vantage, and then there is the mountain." I point to a distant peak sloping in the distance, snow crusting its top.

"You think she's headed there?" Cato scoffs.

"Wouldn't you if you were alone? Does she have any supplies?" I ask.

"She grabbed a pack nearer the perimeter," Clove explains. "She's also got a knife." Her eyes flash angrily.

"Then if we head in that direction, then I think we will find some trace of her. If we don't in a day, then we will turn around and scope out the woods." They seem to be buying it.

Cato gives a smirk, then says:

"Okay. We'll try it your way twelve. For a while."

Then he tromps off into the woods with the others following.

With each step, my heart begins to feel more and more heavy, but the more I think about it, the better chance I have of catching their vulnerability. A mountainside can be dangerous; perhaps I can find a way to throw one of them off the side of it.

It's awful to plan for.

Putting the morbidity from my mind, I try to think of something, anything, that will keep me focused on what's real and what matters.

But this time I can't.

Every foot that I move closer to the mountain is one closer to my death. I'm walking to where I will die. It's a hard thing to do.

As we hike, I watch the greenery of the woods, soft and beautiful. There's a lot of white flowers in this area of the arena, tiny cluster of white that gaze up at the sunlight.

By the time we stop to rest, the sun has already hit high noon and is sloping slightly into the west. We pause in a meadowy clearing slightly above the tree line, giving us a somewhat clear view of the valley to the south. Trees thick and dark block our view to the west.

The careers discuss amongst themselves about any signs of Katniss. So far, the journey has turned up nothing, and I am glad of it. It means that we are hopefully heading further and further away from where she is. If I can maintain this hold on them for the next few days, and if the gamemakers decide to stay out of it, then I should be finished with everything soon.

Glimmer gulps her water and breathes heavily. Clove turns her ridicule away from me and towards her:

"Can't handle the elevation gain?" Clove says with a stab in her voice.

Glimmer simply glares back and shakes her head in annoyance.

"Didn't your guardians prep you for this kind of thing?" Cato picks up on Clove's thread.

"We were trained." Glimmer insists, though it is clear that whatever training she has had with elevation, it wasn't quite enough.

"I guess it doesn't entirely pay off to be from District one. All that luxury makes you soft." Clove smirks.

Cato and Clove, both from district two, come from a district that trains and recruits peacekeepers. This kind of attitude doesn't surprise me, but something does strike me as odd.

"What do you mean by guardians? Do you guys get special mentors in two?" I ask vaguely.

Clove, for some reason, seems interested in answering my question, because she doesn't shoot me a look of dismissal. Instead, her eyes spark up a bit, not with happiness or memory, but with pride: district pride.

"You're really stupid in twelve, aren't you." She mocks, but then continues: "Our guardians are the ones who birthed us."

"You mean your parents?" I ask.

"I suppose _you_ would call them that." Cato leans back against a rock.

"We call them guardians." Clove says. "when kids are born, they are taken to the sorting unit and either assigned to the peacekeeping force, or to masonry."

"They are assigned? When you're a baby?" I ask, surprised.

"Two has a rigorous testing program throughout infancy. If you show aptitude for something else, then you are moved and your guardians reassigned."

"You have to leave your family?"

"You make it sound like a bad thing." Clove remarks. "Guardians don't mind. Neither do we. We all are taught that our bond to the Capitol is the one that must be undying. Anything else is needless. The guardians pay for our food and clothes until we are old enough to officially be assigned to a program. That's all they are for."

"So you don't get to live with your family back home?"

"You're real thick. If you're a career then your guardian sponsors you to live in training barracks when you get old enough and if you're rich enough."

"We were nominated for being careers when we were five." Cato chimes in with some pride to his voice.

It begins to make more sense to me: how peacekeepers can be so hostile to other human beings, how district two tributes always tend to be especially brutal and cold. They don't have families. They don't have parents. They just have guardians, that sound to me like machines rather than human.

I grow quiet and their conversation turns to other things, like comparing tallies of how many each one has killed so far. I try not to listen and instead glance up at the sun, hazy in the sky, leaning more and more to the west.

I think of my own parents: my mother and my father. I wonder what they are doing now, what they are thinking, if they are even watching me, or if they have given up on it since they know I won't be coming home.

I can almost smell the bakery even now: the fresh bread, sugar, warmth. The dense scent of wood fire from the ovens in the early morning, the powdery taste of ash dancing in the light: I can certainly smell that.

Then, in a sustained moment of confusion, I realize...Smoke. I can smell smoke. A pain hits me in the heart. Smoke!

The others too: they begin to smell it on the breeze. We all dart our heads around to find the source. Nothing from the valley. In a flash, we all fix our eyes on the woods to the west. The smoke curls and rolls its way through the trees. Cato is quick to give orders.

"Looks like the gamemakers are up to something!" he hoots with excitement. "Come on!"

They all shout with vigour and follow him through the trees, alert for whatever the gamemakers have planned.

"Why are we going towards the smoke?" I yell. "Shouldn't we run if there's a fire?"

Marvel laughs at my objection and keeps running.

Why would we run towards the smoke?

Then it hits me. The careers understand it better than I do. I'm slow and stupid. The audience must be thirsty for blood since the last 12 hours have been relatively quiet; the smoke is a signal; it is a call. If we are running towards the fire, then it means that someone is running away from it too. It means that the gamemakers want us to collide. It means that someone is going to die.

With terror, I hope beyond hope that it is not Katniss. She is far, far from here, I tell myself. She's not running from the fire. She'd be smart and stay away. It can't be her. It won't be her.

We fly through the woods, leaping over rocks and fallen trees, the smoke growing thicker as we press in. The careers have new energy at the thought of finding a new kill, even if it isn't Katniss. All of them brandish their weapons and careen in the smoke with a determined sickly joy.

Eventually, the smoke slows us down, our lungs burning with ash.

We follow the slope of the hill, descending into more familiar woods.

Through the hazy air, I catch glimpse of a silver thread of water, a stream running down the hill, rippling and undulating in the dense air. The careers run along side its banks for a while, following the bend and curve, waiting for an easy place to cross.

However, the water only deepens and widens.

Clove stops out of frustration: "Come on! Nothing yet?" It is directed at Cato, who himself looks a little confused. Perhaps the smoke was a mislead, since it is seeming to dissipate.

With frustration, Cato swings around to sharply challenge her, when Marvel suddenly shouts:

"There she is!"

"What?" we all exclaim.

"There! There!" He points excitedly.

"Where?" Cato says.

"There! There! Ha ha! Finally!"

"O yeah!"

"Finally!"

"Alright!"

"Here we go!"

"I knew it!"

Across the stream by about thirty feet, in a small dark pool under a bending willow, scrambling up and out of the water is Katniss ...Katniss running for her life, Katniss with her long dark braid streaming with water, water that drips from her body like tears, like blood onto the forest floor.


	4. Chapter 4

"and my spirit with its loss

knows this;

though small against the black,

small against the formless rock,

hell must break before I am lost.

before I am lost,

hell must open like a red rose

for the dead to pass."

H.D. "Eurydice."

The stars gently peek out in the deep ebony sky. I can see them, because like usual I am further from the campfire than all the others. Glimmer is supposed to be on watch, but she sits slumped against a tree trunk, her head drooping into her chest. She's been asleep for an hour. The others curl around the fading embers of the fire, clutching their coats and thin blankets to their bodies. They were clever to bring supplies for sleeping in the woods, yet the cold still makes anyone shiver.

I should sleep. I haven't slept in two days. I'm getting beyond fatigued. However, I can't. Despite the drowsy air and my own heavy eyelids, I cannot sleep. All I can do is gaze up at the tree, the massive tree with its wide branches, and watch the shadowy smudge that sits like an owl in the dark. She is up there, silent, still, waiting.

As I lay in the chill, ignoring the roots that stick in my ribs, I can make out her profile, dark against dark. She has tied herself to the tree, a smart move, but every now and then she bends her head to look down at us, and I wonder if she can see me watching her. I doubt it, yet every time her head bends I divert my gaze, just like I would in class when we were young.

Any time at school, when I had a chance, my eyes would automatically turn to her, tracing the coils of her braids, the sunlight on her neck, the flare of a nostril. And every time that she would turn to look back, my eyes would shy away quickly, too afraid, too stupid, too weak to give her a smile or to nod at her, or even just to say hello.

What was wrong with me? Why would I be content to watch from afar? I was never content, and it always felt wrong, to watch, to remain aloof yet so invested. Was I disturbed? Was something wrong with me?

I don't think I will ever be fully sure. Even now, just gazing at her feels wrong; it feels like I turn her into something that I shouldn't. It makes me feel like the Capitol, with how they watch us, gazing but never seeing. It reminds me of the Tribute interviews, how the world gazed at all of us, wanting to devour up our images without knowing who we truly are beneath the facades. Katniss most of all: the object of everyone's desire, in part because of Cinna and in part because of me.

I remember watching her interview from backstage, seeing her stunning fiery dress and its flames. Cinna had outdone himself. Portia on the other hand had made me a suit as black as coal, with small sequins here and there that when they caught the light looked like the last glimpse of the burning core of coal before it goes out into ash. I am the end result of all the fire, or rather, I am the one to be burned by it all.

Caesar Flickerman did his best to draw out Katniss, almost as if he had been prepped on how guarded she can be, and she did her best to meet him half-way. She smiled. She twirled. She giggled. Who was she? Not herself. No. She was pandering to the crowd, trying to be memorable. And O to me, she was memorable, but for entirely different reasons. Katniss was not this sun goddess, with blistering jewels on her lips and temples and fingers, sparkling with staggering light. This was not her. It was an image. It was a calculated presentation. And it was unforgettable. Under the stage lights, she shimmered with a pulsing power and a hint of smoke, almost as if she could ignite the whole stage at any moment. Cinna is a true master.

And yet, for all her blinding beauty, I had yet to see her reveal herself in the same way that she had when Prim's name had been called. In that moment at the reaping, she was far more beautiful because she was fully herself. On the stage with Caesar she was a enhanced version of herself, with a shadow of truth. Only at the end when they mentioned Prim did I see her face change and her vulnerability and love escape. Only then.

I remember how my heart had pounded as she left the stage, making way for me.

"Just try to make her desirable," Haymitch had grimaced at me. Before the interviews, he had talked to me in training, setting out a plan.

"I think you should actually tell them about your feelings somehow." Haymitch said.

"What?" I had been appalled at the idea.

"If you can make her seem more like a mysterious desirable girl, instead of the sullen snarky kid that she is, then you will have a better chance of getting sponsors interested in her."

"If I tell them what? How much?"

"Just enough."

"I don't know if I can. How can I tell the world when I haven't even told her?"

"I suppose that is part of the price for what you are wanting to do. You're in deep now, boy. This is the game. You need to consider how to get the better of them while they try to kill you."

I wasn't sure altogether if Haymitch meant the Careers or the Capitol. Probably both.

"So how do I get Caesar to ask me about that?"

"I can give him a vague heads up."

"So I just wait for it to come up?"

"Essentially. Just be charming, being yourself, but remember that somehow you will need to link yourself to her."

It had been easy. So easy. Caesar made it simple for me. He had set it up perfectly.

"So Peeta, do you have a girl waiting at home for you?" Caesar had leaned in baring his teeth like a lion.

"No. No. Nothing like that." I had laughed it off, knowing he would press in.

"Nonsense! A handsome boy like you? Surely there is a girl!"

"Well," I lowered my eyes, knowing that the Capitol, and perhaps all of Panem, if not District 12 would be leaning in to hear my next words. "There is this one girl. I've had a crush on her for the longest time, but I don't think she noticed me until the reaping."

"I knew it. Well, let me tell you, if you win this, Peeta, go back home and she won't be able to resist you! Right folks?"

They all roared in laughter and agreement. Here it was: the opportunity to offer myself up for slaughter. I almost didn't want to tell them about her. Somehow it felt like I cheapen it if I share it with the world. For so long this secret had been mine alone: a shadowy hope with no chance of ever seeing the light. However, as I had glanced around the room and at Caesar's hungry expression, I thought of Katniss, and how she was on the edge of their claws, how she actually didn't inspire that much substance despite her dazzling beauty. Her shyness and self-protection had won out overall. It was up to me to do the work: to make her the focus instead of me.

So with a heavy heart, I had said:

"I don't think that will work."

"Why ever not?" Caesar laughed.

"Because she came here with me."

It took them all a second to grasp what I meant, but once it became clear to the show technicians they put up a picture of Katniss behind me on the screen, to help the others who were too slow to grasp it. It was subtler in reality than it sounded perhaps, but either way, the audience grasped my meaning soon enough, resulting in whisperings and gasps and moans.

Caesar gave his best crest-fallen expression, and told me that he wished me good luck.

The applause had thundered down on me as I left the stage, and I had been unable to meet Katniss's eye once I came alongside her and Haymitch backstage.

She had managed to control herself until we reached the tribute centre. However, once we got to our floor, then she had loosed all her fury on me.

Despite the aggression, I remember her closeness to me, her breath on my cheek, her furious eye, her red mouth. Despite her anger, she drew me in...She doesn't understand how powerful she is. Not yet.

Later when Haymitch came to see me with a bandage for my hand, he had said,

"That was good, boy. Better than I anticipated."

"Thanks." I said.

"Let's just hope that she doesn't do something completely disgusting in the games."

"She won't."

"Even you can't be sure of that. The games change everyone."

"Maybe...but I think she'll do fine."

"You make it sound like you are dead already."

"Aren't I?" I smiled slightly.

"That's not the right attitude at this point, kid."

"I know. Well, thanks Haymitch. I hope it pays off."

He nodded, then tossed the bandages to me and left.

So much to say to her, so much that I wanted to hide: now all the world knows the truth, yet they don't know the full of it. They only know what I have shown them.

And all the time, she didn't know the truth behind the truth: I was preparing to die for her.

And now, in the cold air, I have stumbled into the worst position that I can think of. The careers have her trapped, and I have failed in so many ways. This is the dread that has hung over me since all of this began. We have found her, and they plan to kill her in the morning.

What can I do? With bleary eyes, I look around at the careers asleep and at Glimmer's nodding head. Can I kill them all now?

I finger my knife.

Where would I start? Start with the most deadly. But they are all deadly. Start with Cato? Or Clove? Who would wake the fastest at the sound of death?

They would all start awake no matter how tired they are. Finding Katniss has heated their blood. Any sound would stir them.

I would only have a few seconds to finish off maybe two of them with a knife. I could try to take their weapons from them, but that wouldn't guarantee anything. They might wake while I am doing that.

If I kill Cato first, then I could jump over him to Clove who is lying nearby. She'd probably be just waking when I get there, and I would have to struggle with her. She's strong. The others would wake. They would stagger for a moment to see what is going on. Then Marvel would grab his knives and Glimmer her bow. I would be dead quickly, but then at least I would have taken out one or two of them. That is not ideal at all, but it is all that I can hope for at the moment.

Do I start now?

Or now?

Or now?

The cold shrinks my fingers. And my heart aches.

Tears threaten on the edge of my eyelids.

They are just kids; they don't know any better. They think that they are doing the right thing. They think that this is okay. They are doing what the Capitol has told them to do: kill or die. They are just being good subjects. They are being all that they can be given the circumstances. How can I murder them without destroying myself in it?

I can't. The moment my knife slices in one of their necks, it means that who I know myself to be will die too.

Now is the moment that I find out not only who I really am but what kind of love I have for the girl who sits in the shadows of the leaves.

Can I do this? Can I?

My heart is cracking under the strain. The shadows of the night begin to turn gray; dawn is coming. I need to do this now.

I need to act now!

She's going to die, if I don't do this.

Yet still my hand is frozen upon the knife, unable to move.

But then in the early blur of dawn, and despite the sleepy haze of my sight, I see Katniss moving. She climbs slowly up higher into the tree, moving carefully and quietly. Is she going to jump?

What is she doing?

I am transfixed. I cannot move. She, the bird in the tree, mesmerizes me the beast on the ground.

Then I see her pull out her knife and begin to run the blade against something up in the leaves. I can't quite see what is there, but I can see her arm moving and the glint of the blade every now and then.

What is she doing?

What?

Sleep so suddenly threatens over me, yet I fight to stay awake. What is going to happen?

The air around me begins to rush in my ears. What, what?

Her arm keeps sawing away, and I keep watching.

This is how it will always be. Me: far off, just watching.

Then after a while, I hear a crack in the tree. The branch that she works with her knife is breaking loose. A distant buzzing fills the air, and I almost shake my head, wondering if my hearing is going.

The falling of the branch rustles the leaves. A rush of air. A silence for a fraction of a second.

Then a grey sphere hits the ground in the middle of the careers, and an angry cloud floods the air.

I can scarcely scramble up when the pain hits me with incredible intensity. Pain in my hands, my neck, my face, my ears, hair, legs.

They are tracker jackers; suddenly I realize what she has done. In order to escape, she spied a nest in the tree and has cut it loose to kill us in order that she may walk free.

I run madly away from the billowing cloud of tracker jackers, hearing the screams of the careers as they awaken to searing pain. While I run, I swat at my skin, pulling tracker jackers from my hair and clothes, running to escape their rage.

All the while, a fire, a deep melting fire, courses through me, lighting up my nerves and sending my brain into panic with the pain.

Trees and twigs reach out for me in black melting webs; the air grows hot, and I can't breath in the green gases that form plumes from the stream. All I can do is fight back against the looming dark, the deep tooth-lined cavern. I can hear everything. I can sense everything.

Cato darts ahead of me, red worms running down his back and eating at his arms; he screams at me and a trail of black slime runs down his chin.

He's cursing as he runs.

"She's so dead! I am going to kill her!" He cries with his sword flashing with slime.

Suddenly, in the middle of all of this, I stop. My skin is crawling with bubbling acid, yet I turn around. He's going to kill her. I have to warn her. He's coming. I have to tell her to stay in the tree. With effort I turn around and stumble back the way I came. I can't hear the tracker jackers anymore, but I still swat at the air and the thick curtains that bare my way. Then through the thick beads of heat and poisons, I see her, leaning over a body, over Glimmer who radiates with slime and acid.

I call out:

"Run! Katniss!" my voice sounds hollow and quiet. Can she hear me? "Katniss, run! Get out of here! What are you doing? He's coming! Go!"

She looks at me with a vague confusion, almost as if she doesn't know who I am; an ant blossoms out of her cheek as she starts to get up and turn to run, bow and arrows in her melting hands.

I hear the crashing of branches.

Cato.

Where's my knife?

Breathe.

Cato.

My knife is running with blood and water. Yet still somehow I grasp it.

I glance back to see Katniss running and staggering into the trees, then Cato's voice hits me with a force of heavy air.

"Twelve, come on! There she goes! Come on!"

I try to breathe. I can't. Yet somehow, I gasp out.

"No!"

He stumbles over towards me.

"What?"

"No." I repeat, pulling out my knife, unsteady.

Cato looks at me with effort, then he understands. With a pained laugh, he shakes his head.

"Wow. You really took us all for a ride, didn't you?"

"You're not going anywhere near her. You will have to kill me first."

"Yeah?" He blinks with effort, trying as hard as I am to be focused despite the welts on our skin. "Well," he continues, "I can do that."

He lunges at me with his sword.

I duck and stumble over a log. We both lumber about trying to get our balance.

He swings again at me, roaring into the air.

I dart under his arm and elbow him in the stomach, sending him back, winded slightly. Without much forethought, I leap at him, trying to hang on to my knife. Before I can pound it into his chest, he swings his arm and hits me, knocking me to the side, my knife careening into the grass.

I scramble for it, trying to ignore the ants that threaten to devour my eyes.

Then a pain beyond the pain of the tracker jackers runs sharply along my thigh.

I turn to look.

Cato has sliced my thigh with his sword.

I'm pretty sure he was aiming for my head, but he's disoriented, possibly more than I am.

I roll away from him, and he staggers trying to get his sword aloft again. The tracker jacker venom confuses him; he starts swinging his sword and arm around at the air, shrieking.

Desperately, I look around for my knife; it lies between the seething coils of a snake; at first I hesitate, then seeing Cato moving in my direction, I grab at the knife and roll to face him. However, he's reeling now, his eyes unfocused.

He doesn't really see me anymore.

I struggle to my feet, my hands and legs covered in green slime, bright, hot, sticky. I hobble away from him as he collapses in the grass and try my best to stay alert.

I don't know how long I wander, but eventually the venom wins out. I fall to my knees before a giant ring of fire and shut my eyes to whatever may come.

Yet in the fire, I see her.

She is there: spinning, dancing, reeling near and far, a girl on fire, delighting in the flames, a girl on fire, lovely, terrible, victorious, and deadly.


	5. Chapter 5

As some pale-lidded ghost that calls

I wait secure until that other goes

Leaving thee free for thy high self of old,

Upon which soul then free, will mine beget

Such mighty fantasies as we before

Bade stand effulgent and rejoice the world.

Ezra Pound, "I Wait"

Birdsong...sunlight...water...

Sunlight...

I open my eyes to the trees and leaves. A pale sun shines down with faint heat. How long have I been asleep?

My limbs ache with cold; I cannot move quickly or well. It takes a long time to just move my fingers. Sitting up takes even longer.

Then a deep sting hits me: my leg.

I look to see mud and crusted blood all over my leg. The cut glistens with blood, but the flow seems to have slowed down since it is not gushing like I would have expected.

With a sick feeling, I look around me, hoping to find myself alone, but afraid that I will find Cato nearby waking up as well.

However, I am indeed alone. The woods sway in the breeze, and everything is remarkably tranquil.

Without thinking it through, I try to get up, but then I gasp and fall to the ground again, dizzy and unsteady, vomiting up bile from the pain in my leg. This is not good.

I know what a cut like this does to loners in the games. All you need is one untended wound to get infected and then you won't need to worry about careers or anyone else because you're dead anyway.

At first, I panic at the thought.

But then I remember what happened, with difficulty. The sword, Cato, the tracker jackers, Katniss...

She had run off into the woods; hopefully, she has found somewhere to hide. Clove and Marvel and Cato are still out there, probably just waking up too from all the venom in our systems.

Then the panic in me at my condition dissolves slowly. I was supposed to die anyway.

I suppose this is how it will happen.

It will be long and drawn out, unfortunately. Unless another tribute finds me and finishes me off, then I will be in for a long death.

I look to my right and see that in my delirium from the tracker jacker venom, I have wandered near to the stream again.

It lies calm and silver about a 150 feet through the trees.

Suddenly extremely thirsty, I crawl, or I try to crawl with my hands in the dirt and grass, slowly making my way to the water's edge.

It takes such a long time that halfway there, I have to stop and just lay there, my blood pounding in my ears and the cut on my leg leaving small pools of scarlet behind me.

Maybe crawling to the stream will speed up the process of dying...Maybe I won't have to wait so long...

Above me, the leaves dance, shivering under the sun.

I try to breathe, despite my pounding headache.

In some way, I don't know what to do with myself now. I'm out of the game; I failed to take out any of the careers, and now I will have to let Katniss fend for herself for the rest of the game.

Yet, now that I have seen her, it doesn't seem like it will be an impossible feat for her. She cleverly got the best of us, dropping the nest of tracker jackers on us to allow her own escape.

I'm sure she was hoping to kill more than just one tribute through that.

Maybe she did.

Maybe some of the others got stung more than I did.

Maybe she will count me as one of her kills.

Could she stomach that?

Will she feel much remorse when she watches the replay or sees my picture in the sky?

I struggle to combat the chaotic feelings within me.

Am I angry? Angry at her? I don't know. She is only doing what she has to do to survive. Isn't that what I really want?

So what is it that has me so disquiet?

Then in a flash I think back to her own anger at me after the interviews.

"You want to play the game, Peeta?" she had raged. "We can play at it! But you leave me alone to play it my way. You can do whatever you want, but don't bring me into your cooked up schemes."

She hadn't believed me. She had thought that the confession of love was a strategy play to gain sympathy from sponsors. Her words would have stung less if they were true. However, they weren't. I was playing the game by not playing the game. I was telling the truth to perpetuate a lie.

Then Haymitch had jumped in:

"Don't be a damn fool, Katniss. He did you a favor."

"No he didn't! He made me look weak!" She roared at Haymitch.

"No he made you look desirable, which is a lot more than what you did for yourself with all your giggling and twirling. He made people see you as worth wanting. He gave you depth."

Haymitch was not exactly revealing the truth about my feelings to her then, but he was defending me and my choices.

In some degree, I had felt glad to be so supported. However, her anger and then her silence made me wish I could disappear into the floor.

She had grown stony then, comprehending that she hadn't done as well as perhaps she imagined with Caesar.

Haymitch continued: "I can't get support for a snarky sullen grouch of a girl or a quiet tender baker. No one would care about you. It's not good television. They would just want to see you die. But I _can_ sell the love story. I can sell star-crossed lovers to the sponsors."

Her eyes had burned like coal: "but we aren't lovers." She had objected in a deep voice.

She was so beautiful, yes, so desirable. She didn't know then how beautiful she was, with her hair in a clustered braid and her skin crusted with glittering gems. And yet, the Katniss that I loved was the one with a single braid, a worn leather jacket far too big for her, with mud on her boots, a bow in her hand, sun on her skin. Either way, the pulsating sun child or the Katniss of reality could and would not be mine. Her detest for me rang clear in her words and tone.

I suppose some corner of my mind had hoped beyond all hope that my confession would draw out her kindness, her compassion.

However, all that I received from her in that moment was her mistrust and dismissal.

Perhaps what pains me now is knowing how easy it was for her to drop the nest down on us. It didn't look like she hesitated even though she knew I was there. Yet, I have to be generous still; she thinks that I am in league with them. She thinks that I am an enemy. She thinks that I am an obstacle to her survival. I shouldn't blame her for the easy assassination attempt. She's just trying to make it to the end. Still, a part of my heart wishes that she had shown even a little remorse in it all.

I'm being unreasonable. She's so withdrawn; even if she felt remorse, there is no way that anyone would be able to tell. She keeps her deepest feelings safe within.

The games are not a place for vulnerability. It isn't a place for the weak.

Having regained my breath, I turn over and crawl 20 more feet, before I have to stop again. The ground grows wet and soft. I'm getting closer to the stream.

Mud cakes my front as I crawl, the coolness running through my fingers.

Do I want to just lay here and wait to die? Or do I want to go quickly?

I don't really know what I want.

Yet, the thought is a comfort: I can have some control over how I die. If I hide and wait, then at least I can die in my own way. I don't have to submit to the careers or to any other tribute.

I can still be me, at last.

The idea gives me some hope.

I look around and begin to gather mud and grass, still crawling towards the water. I still need a drink.

After what feels like hours of crawling and stopping and crawling again, I make it to the rocky water's edge. Dipping my blood crusted hand into the cold water, I drink deep for a long time.

When I have had enough, I eat the packs of nuts that I kept in my pocket.

I eat them all.

If I can lay still, then the nutrients should hold me over until I don't really need to eat anymore.

With the mud around me, I coat my face, painting a death mask in a way, so that I can camouflage into the rock face. I put down the grass into a crevice in the rock, big enough for me to lie down. The grass will soften it and keep the coolness of the rock from being too cold.

Once I lie down, I draw in pebbles and rocks and mud and moss, covering my body up to hide from the world.

While I do, I feel as if I am digging my own grave.

Buried alive.

It is a strange feeling.

However, my leg still throbs, and my head aches. I need to finish before I lose focus or strength.

Sheer exhaustion looms up over me as I settle my head down and place a few pieces of moss around my neck. I feel aches everywhere. It is as if my body realizes what I am doing and is finally unwinding the last few days worth of anxiety, letting it flood out into my limbs with pain.

This way I can die on my own.

This way I can remain out of the way and let her do what she will now.

She doesn't care for me, so she won't worry about trying to find me.

Despite this, I still feel like the little boy of so long ago, watching the dark-haired girl with braids singing in the morning light.

Maybe because I know that death is creeping closer I can more clearly feel it-love.

Despite all the anger and failure, I can see it-love.

The water lulls me.

Sunlight warms the mud on my face.

Wind in trees...the smell of water...I sleep.

When I wake again, the sky is dark, and star peek out in the night. Cold numbs my legs and hands. I can't really feel anything anymore. Perhaps that is a good thing.

I drift in and out of sleep, awakened only my shooting pains in my leg that soon chills to numbness with the cold.

In morning, I wake but do not move. I lay still and listen to the air and the water. In and out of sleep, I watch the clouds and the sky. I hear birds singing a four note melody across the woods, a haunting strain, that eventually fades. My thoughts are incoherent and jumbled, full of memories and wishful thinking. Dreams, nightmares, terrors and desires join in mingled confusion in my mind as the sun runs across the sky and sets into the west.

In my dreams, I see Katniss running hair long streaming in the air, a smile on her face. I see her look at me, with a tender expression. I see her reach for my hand.

Yet when I reach for her, I cannot touch her. She turns to smoke and eludes my grasp. I call out for her, tears in my eyes, begging her to see me, to know me, to see me as worth knowing, to understand it all, but my voice stifles, and she runs to the woods where I know Gale awaits her.

I scream.

I feel every limb strain for her.

Then I wake again to the silence of the morning.

In nightmares, I once more hold the hand of the girl at the fire, watch the blood seeping from her throat. I run but can't run far enough or hard enough. A knife catches me. I go down in blood and fire.

On and on, my mind slips in and out of wakefulness, mixing together time and space and memory.

Somewhere in the mess of it all, I hear a voice in the arena announcing changes to the rules of the game: two victors may emerge at the end if they originate from the same district.

It takes me a long time to process what I have heard, but when I do, I feel a shadow over the hope that it gives me. Clearly the gamemakers have figured me out; they see that I am true to my word in the interviews, that I am truly fighting for Katniss and not against her. My confrontation with Cato cleared any doubt about that. Thus, they want to see if I can make it, just to see how dynamic the unrequited romance could be. They want sexual tension now. They want romance. So they've changed the rules. It feels unnaturally kind on their part. I almost don't trust it. However, the idea is too desirable to resist. If Katniss and I teamed up, then we could both go home. However, she has to find me. She needs to want to find me. I don't know if she will. Will she think that I am worth finding? As far as she knows I betrayed her to the careers. I don't know if she will remember that I stopped Cato; she looked too dazed from venom.

Will she make it in time?

Will she even try to pursue me?

None of these questions have answers.

And hours weave in and out of the river water, with pain and fear.

I dream of Katniss creeping along the stream bank, bow and arrow in hand, thin but alert. Alive. She's beautiful.

I dream that she doesn't see me here, but that she's looking for me. Her eyes scan the earth and trees with an anxiety of care. I hear her call my name. I smile. This is a sweet dream.

She draws near to where I am, and I remember her bending over the body of Glimmer that lay swollen from tracker jacker venom. I remember my anger, but I swallow it, determined to keep this dream sweet.

Her breath comes in steady rhythm. She's beautiful.

"Are you here to finish me off, sweetheart?" I ask with a smile.

She startles, looking for me.

Then I feel her foot on my arm, and I am confused. I can feel her. I can feel her foot. Why?

If I can feel her foot, then...then what?

It means that I might not be dreaming. It means that she's actually here.

"Peeta!" She calls. Her voice is true, pure and close.  
She's here.

I answer.


	6. Chapter 6

"Shadow seeks shadow

Then both leaf

And leaf-shadow are lost"

H.D. "Evening"

She's in my arms, nestled close, her face pressing on my neck, her breath warm and heavy. My heart stutters against my chest in love. She's here. She's in my arms. She's with me in the dark. Does she care for me?

It isn't that she has said so, but her actions….her actions say a great deal.

I can still taste her on my lips. She's kissed me so many times. Those kisses, shy, guarded, closed-mouthed, are so like her. She's unsure of many things, yet even though I am dying, she cares enough to kiss me. Someone who didn't care at all wouldn't bother. She does. And more, she doesn't want me to die. Any time I try to bring it up, she silences me with her mouth, attempting to distract me from the fatalistic idea.

I know better. I know what blood poisoning is and how it kills.

She'll only have to deal with me for a day or two more, then I will be gone. However, now that she and I are here, I don't want to go. I want to stay with her. I want to find out what is behind the grey in her eyes that she hides so well. I want to hold her like this forever.

And though I can scarcely believe it, I think she wants me to stay with her too. Should I believe it? I don't know.

I should know better. I should not trust all of this. She's fighting to survive. She's playing her part. She knows the cameras are watching. Yet the temptation is too great. Her kindness is too beguiling. When she first found me and hauled me into the shelter of the cave, I couldn't eat or drink.

"I can't." I had turned up my nose at the groosling.

"Come on, Peeta." She said impatiently.

"Really, I'm not hungry. I am serious. I will just throw up."

"And I'm serious. You're going to eat some of this even if I have to shove it down your throat."

Her violence was amusing for some reason.

"I can think of more persuasive ways to get it into me, Katniss." I chuckled weakly.

"Like what?" Her eyes had flashed. She was getting irritated.

"Well….you kissed me once…how about another?"

Her lips were pale pink. I was and am so selfish. It is hard to resist indulging yourself in pleasure when you know that you're going to die anyway. What harm is it to ask for her kisses? She'll get to go home and forget about them. She won't care about them. If I'm going to die in the arena, then I still want to die in the way I would like best. I have that right. It is selfish. But I didn't have the strength then to avoid it.

Her face had furrowed for a moment, as if the thought of kissing me again was confusing at the least. But then she caught the game.

"One kiss. One bite." She had demanded.

"Alright."

"Bite first."

"But I will throw it up."

"What about some pears? I have dried pears."

"No thanks."

"Peeta, you have to eat something."

"No I don't."

"Yes you do!"

"Why? It doesn't matter."

"Don't give me that. It matters. You can't give up on me."

"I'm not giving up on you. I never would."

"Yes you are if you don't eat something."

"I said I would for a kiss."

"Are you lying?"

"You can always kiss me and then find out."

Again, her eyes flashed. All I wanted were her kisses. I didn't care about eating. Katniss spoke, her eyes with a warm glow.

"Come on, Peeta." Her voice suddenly softer, enticing, gentle. "Please? I promise that I will kiss you."

"Alright." Anything for her. Anything for another kiss. Anything for her when she had that look on her face.

She slipped some fruit into my mouth before I could say anything else. The taste hit me with nausea. I chewed trying to keep bile down. It took a long time to work up the courage to swallow.

Eventually, I managed to push it down with a grimace.

She had smiled then, leaning down to press her lips to mine. She was so shy. I dared to brush her cheek with my fingers, soft, cool.

When I had pulled away, I saw the grime on my fingertips.

"Sorry." I muttered. "I'm a mess."

"It's okay." She had blushed, her eyes cast down. "It's not like there are showers here in the arena."

"No. I certainly don't smell like roses now."

She laughed a little. Her laugh brought me some life.

"Bite." She had said.

"No thanks." I pulled her to me weakly, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

"That's not fair." She objected. "You have to eat."

"I'm the one who's dying. Nothing is fair."

"You're not dying."

"I'm not stupid Katniss."

"If you keep this attitude then you truly are an idiot."

"You sound like Haymitch."

"Insulting me won't work either."

"I'm not insulting you. I wouldn't dare."

"Then come on. Another bite."

"Only if you tell me a story."

"A story?"

"Yeah. Anything. It helps keep my mind off my leg."

"I'm not good at stories."

"I disagree."

"You're really stubborn aren't you!"

"When it comes to you, always."

She scoffed then, but her cheek flushed a little, a pretty colour.

"You look beautiful when you are puzzled."

"I'm not puzzled."

"No?"

"No, I know exactly where you stand." She leaned in again, kissing me softly, deliberately, as if she was trying to speak through her kiss. And I was never more confused.

"Please eat some more." She asked again.

"Alright."

We had carried on like that for quite a while.

I know that I am being tremendously selfish, even now while I hold her in my arms. She's so beautiful, yet still so untouchable. Whatever it is that I love in her, I cannot get at it—the wild girl, the quiet wolf, the dangerous fire—no matter what I do to draw her out. She always hides something behind her smile. She doesn't fully trust me. She wants to save me, but she doesn't trust me. Why would she? I'm a goner, and she knows it, yet somehow she doesn't want to let me go. Even now, in my arms, she curls against me hanging on tight. As if I mean something to her. She's everything to me, but it feels strange after years of distance to have her near and pressing her cheek to my heart.

It is almost too sweet to bear. I wouldn't be surprised at all if I suddenly woke up alone in the woods by the river again.

She hasn't told me everything that has happened to her since the tracker jackers—just small bits and pieces, hints and allusions. Her eyes cloud over with grief that she has bound up tight inside. If we have the luxury of survival then we will have lots of time to unravel it all. However, for now, there is only now.

What I have learned so far is that there is little room in the games for pause, for conscience. Whatever time you get, you can choose to use it to live or to grieve. There isn't a place for much else.

Yet, in this pause that the gamemakers are giving us, I find all of the ugly things of the last week come flooding over me, a poison tainting my mind.

It almost all makes me suspicious of her. The games have a way of making you mistrust even the purest thing. She's playing the game just as much as anyone. Is she toying with me? Is all of this for the cameras? She's so guarded. Has she truly been hiding feelings for me all along? She warned me that she would play the game on her own. She doesn't trust me. Do I trust her?

I don't know what to think beyond the delight of holding her. And even then, it doesn't really feel worth worrying about since I will be dead soon. Will it matter if she means it?

To me it does…unfortunately.

If I were less myself, then I could perhaps be happy with the playacting. It could be enough to simply pretend and die in the glut of lies. However, I'm still me. And unfortunately, I do want it to be real. I want her to be real with me. I want what we seem to have to be real.

So far, though, she has not given me reason to think that it isn't real. She hasn't whispered to me knowingly about the cameras. She hasn't stolen a knowing glance or winked or nodded in an obvious way. Maybe she knows that all of Panem is watching, so if it is fake for her then she's hiding it expertly. Then again, if for her it is real, a small fledgling feeling of care, then…the next day or two will be exceptionally difficult. Saying goodbye always is hard.

I think back to the last time I saw Portia and Haymitch, just before I entered the shoot to lift me up into the arena. Both had come to see me. Haymitch first. Then Portia.

"I'll do what I can for you, boy." He had said with a sad grimace. "The rest is up to you."

"And the gamemakers, I guess." I had replied.

"Yes." His face had convulsed in a strange way, memories I'm sure near the surface.

"Well, thanks for everything, Haymitch."

He shook his head:

"You're the only person that I know who would thank me for letting them get killed."

"Neither of us have much choice in it all."

He had glared at me, not quite with hatred, more with disbelief.

"I wish I could understand it," he said. "But I don't."

"That's okay."

A buzzer in the air: our time was running out.

"Well, just remember to stay alive for as long as you can"

"I know."

"You're an idiot."

He had left then, without a glance or a word, just a handshake, then a quick exit.

When Portia came to put finishing touches on my arena clothing, her eyes were steady.

Her fingers nimbly buttoned up the jacket.

"You're the bravest man I know, Peeta Mellark." She had laid her glittering hand on my shoulder.

"I don't know about that." I had contested weakly, staring at the waiting platform.

"I do. What you are about to do is beyond brave."

"Haymitch says that I am stupid."

"Haymitch has lost a lot of kids over the years. That's a lot of grief."

"I guess so."

She had taken my hand, squeezing it:

"Whatever you face in there, I know that in the end you will show them. You will show all of Panem."

"Show them what? How to die?"

"No, show them how to love."

I had trembled a bit then, hearing the countdown to death in my bones.

"What if I fail? What if I can't get her to the end?"

"You can't fail." She had stared at me steady with her wide eyes. "What you feel for her, Peeta: it's real. It's right. Whatever happens, no matter what you have to do, no matter how it ends, that can't change. With that kind of love, you win."

"I'm scared."

"I know. I'm sorry. Of all us, you deserve a long happy life. I wish that you could have that."

"Thank you." What else can you say to the last face of kindness that you will see?

A cold voice over the speakers: "Pod platform lifting in 30 seconds."

With heavy but calm steps I had walked onto the platform, my fingers trembling.

She had seen how I was shaking. Reaching through, she grabbed my hand, holding on until the 30 seconds was up and the glass tube broke her grasp on me. Even then, she kept her hand on the glass, staring with a sober smile, willing me to be brave, bidding me goodbye.

Even now I can feel that steady gaze. Can I be brave now? Now I feel more like a coward than ever.

Her eyelids flutter in a quick flurry of dreaming. I dare to kiss her forehead. While I do, a wave of pain hits me from my leg, and my stomach churns from the ache.

The games take their toll and demand payment. My life is the price.

The irony and tragedy of it all hits me fresh with each second. No doubt the people in the capitol are eating it up: our ill-fated romance. Haymitch was right. It makes for good television.

When she wakes, we talk. She banters with me. Even though I feel sick and weak, her fire makes me want to be playful. I try to lighten her heart. It won't be so bad for her when I'm gone. Even now, I feel more disoriented, like my mind is losing its place in time.

The announcer suddenly interrupts our conversation with news of the feast.

And though I try to stop her, I can see her determination to go to the feast. Why? I want to scream at her. Why sacrifice for me? I'm supposed to be the one doing that for you. You don't love me, so why pay the ultimate price for me. Don't die for me. Let me die for you.

My heart pounds. If she goes to the feast and dies, somehow it feels like it cheapens or erases all the anxiety and turmoil that I have experienced in the games so far. Somehow it feels like if I don't die now, I will almost be disappointed, especially if I live and she dies. If we both die then so be it, but I refuse to let her perish because of me. I could not bear that! I have worked so hard to get her to the end. Why would she throw all of that away in my face?

She doesn't understand. However, she does promise to stay with me. To stay till the end. I hope she might sing for me. That, even in death, would be the best thing for my heart. I'm ready to die. Can't she see it? For a moment, she exits the cave, and I am left to my feverish mind, growing more and more strained under the thought of her bloody and dead. She can't die. I can't let her die.

This is why I am here: to keep her safe. Why is it that the reverse has happened? I am sour and angry with myself. How could I have been such a colossal failure? I'm sure the world watching looks at me with repulsion. They see me as weak, as pathetic, as worthless.

They don't see how hard I have tried—how much I want to protect her but can't. I am useless now, but that doesn't mean that I don't _want_ to be useful, clever, adept, brave, strong. I want to be all those things for her. But now, I fail.

She returns, with a gentle smile, berries mashed in a cup for me to eat. My headache pounds anew, but I take them because she has promised to stay. Her hand brushes my forehead; I want to cry and hide. Each sweet bite of the berries sours in my mouth as I think of how useless I am to her. She shouldn't have come to save me. She should have just stayed on her own. She would have made it. Yet, she came to find me. Why? I'm still asking why. She cares.

I can't let her care too much to risk her own life.

Her hair, strands of it loose around her face, curl from the moisture in the cave. Even though she and I both stink of sweat and dirt, she's still beautiful. I could eat sweet berries from her happily until I died. Even now I feel the sweetness running down my throat, thick as syrup.

Then, in the feverish haze, I realize what she has done. She's quick to press down on my nose and mouth, almost cutting off my air completely. She makes me swallow; I'm not strong enough to throw her off of me. If I were healthy then I could, but I even now feel the effects of the sleep syrup shutting down my body. I try to thrust my finger down my throat but I just chomp on my hand, my arm going limp.

What has she done? Is she killing me?

No. She's saving me. As sleep closes in over me, I want to scream at her not to be so stupid, but all I can do is watch her satisfied smile as she leans back, her bow glistening nearby, the distant feast beckoning.

When I wake up, she's there. At first, it is huge relief that she hasn't gone. But then I see the blood.

"Katniss!"

I roll her over to see the cut in her brow, the syringe in her hand, the bow cast aside on the ground. My heart heaves in grief and terror. Is she dead? Is she dead?

I kiss her face, in panic:

"Katniss! Katniss!" Her cheeks are cool but not deadly cold.

Is she dead?

I press two fingers to her neck: a pulse. She's alive. She's just lost a lot of blood. My whole body loosens its strain, and I breathe again. She's still here. She's still alive. As long as I keep her warm and safe, she will wake up. Or at least, that is the hope.

I get up and pull her further in to the shelter of the cave, wrapping her in the sleeping bag, cradling her in my arms. She sleeps. And I am left to realize what she has done.

Without thinking I had leapt up and gathering her to me, not noticing that my leg felt better, that the haze of infection was gone, that I was actually hungry now.

Peeling back the torn pant leg, I look at my injury only to find that the jarring wound is now so much better. What has she done? I piece it together eventually.

She went to the feast and won the medicine for me. For me. She paid a price for it, but she did it anyway.

As tenderly as I can, I brush the hair from her blood stained brow. How can I ever thank her for this? How can I ever repay her? Why did she do this?

The gratitude and anger fill me both in turn. I'm angry that she risked her life for me. It was stupid of her to be so reckless with her life, just to help me. She's got Prim and her mom. I'm not needed at home. I've got nothing now. There are no ties for me in this world, except for her. Nothing is lost with my death. Yet she decided to save me.

Why?

With slow and careful thought, I try to explain it to myself. Does…she….does she….

Does she care for me? Truly? Not just pretend? Not just for the cameras?

Does she love me? I can scarcely let myself believe it, but no matter how pessimistic I try to be, the small spark of hope is there, growing the more I hold her.

She risked her life for me. Why would she do that? Only someone who cares would do that.

"Is this real?" I whisper in her ear, trying to will her to wake up. She sleeps still, breathing steadily.

Eventually, my hunger overwhelms me and I turn to the food supply left.

While I drink water and try my best not to gorge myself on what food we have left, I watch her sleep and try to piece together what I know about her, if it could be true…if she could possibly feel something for me. All those kisses. The kindness. The tender hand. The soft words. Her shy blush. Her angry glance in the Capitol. Her harsh words. Her fierce solitude. Her distance. Why now has she come so near? How can these things reconcile? I don't know. But somehow all of those things have lead her here, asleep, recovering, near to me, having risked it all for me.

And eagerly, I wait for her to awaken, to see me, as if it was the very first time.


	7. Chapter 7

"My mouth blooms like a cut.

I've been wronged all year"

"The Kiss" Anne Sexton

They glisten in the sunlight, ripe, dark, bedewed, bursting with juice, sheltered under the leaves of the bush. It is all I can do to resist popping one in my mouth. I can envision the puncture of the soft skin and the flow of sweet juice flooding my tongue. There are so many on the bush; I could strip the bush bare and stuff my mouth with a handful; there would still be enough for her. However, I can't do it. I can't eat without her. She has gotten me this far with so much kindness and sacrifice and,….. I dare to believe it,…. love. I will not deny her anything now, not while I have anything in my power at all to sacrifice for her. It's a small thing really to wait to eat with her. Other people would call it petty. Others might easily toss a berry into their mouths without much regret. However, I can't do that without feeling immense guilt. She's done everything for me. She's saved me. The least I can do is wait for her to try the berries first.  
The real truth of it is that I want to see her pleasure when she eats them. I want to watch her smile when she bites down on the sweet tartness that will spill out into her mouth. Perhaps it is a little strange. Perhaps I'm becoming greedy. Her kisses, her stories, her words, her embraces, her hand, her smile: I want more. She's got me caught up in her net, a willing prey in a snare, and I, the victim, welcome her, the victor. I welcome her sharp teeth.

My fingers stain blue as I pull on the thick berries, gathering them into a handkerchief. She will be pleased. I'm not so useless now. I could tell that she was getting more and more irritated with the noise I was making as she tried to hunt. It was stupid of me to think that I could help her track game. I'm not good at killing things. I'm much happier to gather all I can find, to lay them as a prize at her feet, to see her eyes light up at the sight. That will make the humiliation worthwhile. I'm not useless. I am good for something. She's been too kind. I need her to see that I am not just a hanger-on. I can get us out of here too.

The berries roll and bump up against each other as I rinse them in the stream. I glance around the bank, alert for any sign of Cato, Thresh, or Foxface. When I had first left Katniss' side, reassuring her that I would be fine to gather some stuff for us to eat, my heart had raced once I was alone. In the quiet loneliness of the woods, all by myself, I suddenly had the clarity to think of all that had happened in the last few days. The cave, Katniss' battle at the cornucopia, my leg healed with the syringe, Katniss' cut on the head, her stories of Prim, her questions…her kiss. My mind had reeled.

She had asked me when I had first started noticing her, when I had started to like her. It felt like she really wanted to know, that it wasn't a question like Caesar might ask, to inspire the sponsors or woo the viewers. She really wanted to know my story. She wanted to know me. So I told her…as much as I dared. The more I talked, I watched her face, an expression of curiosity flooding her features, then when I mentioned her father, the mockingjay song, her voice, her braids in the schoolroom light, her face had softened with compassion, with care, with….a kindness that I had only seen her bestow on Prim. Yet, she was looking at me that way. It had made me stumble over my memories a little. However, her cheeks had flushed when she spoke:

"Peeta, you don't have much competition anywhere."

Her eyes had been cast down, afraid to meet my gaze. Could she still be unsure of me? Was it still for the cameras? I had stopped worrying about them long ago. She had left me briefly to bring back food from Haymitch, a gift from sponsors to the district 12 lovers. At least the Capitol seemed to be hooked on our story. I certainly was. Then, I kissed her.

It was the first real kiss—not one where I was desperate with fever and infection, or she overcome by exhaustion. It was the first one where we were both okay—safe, or as safe as you can be in the games. At first she was shy and still, but I carefully brought my hand to her cheek to softly brush her skin. She was so beautiful; how can anyone help but love her? Then I felt her kiss me back. She had touched my hand against her face and returned my kiss with a sigh.

And my heart tore in pieces: she loved me.

She loved me.

Her other hand had come up to grasp my neck to pull me in, and at first I had gladly pressed her to me, kissing her more and more. But then I smelt blood. Opening my eyes, I saw new scarlet stains dripping through her bandage. She was as stirred up as me, but it wouldn't do to have her lose more blood. I had to keep her safe. She had to make it out of here. Still, her soft breathing, her pink lips caressing mine, it made me blush with nervous quiver. However, as the rain stopped and the sun came out, my heart settled itself in her form. She had me wholly now, if she didn't before. Now I would do anything and everything for her, blindly. Now she loved me. Anything was possible now.

The memory of her kiss still pulsing in my mind, carefully, as quietly as I can manage, I return to our meeting-place and lay the berries out on the rock, arranging them like an offering.

I hope she likes them.

I gaze at them for a moment, then turn back to the stream.

As the roar of the water increases, I move down to the bank and pick at the water's edge, looking for any edible roots or greens. While I do, my thoughts suddenly turn to Gale Hawthorne again.

A few years back, I remember seeing him kissing a girl behind the schoolhouse: Fen Ivee, a round, ample, dark-haired girl with red lips and a yellow dress. I remember her because she was a merchant girl, a little more well-fed than the seam kids but only slightly. I had been leaving the schoolhouse late, having been held back by the teacher for a poor test result on the Capitol's history of economy. The autumn air had hit me hard when I had come out of the stuffy schoolhouse, buttoning my coat up at my throat. I was disappointed. Being held back meant not only a brisk slap with a rolling pin on my knuckles at home, but it also meant that I had once again missed my chance to speak to Katniss. Ever since the day in the rain with the bread, I had noticed her, seen her thin body grow lean, seen her and Gale begin to thread their way through town with squirrels and rodents for sale. And all the while, I had wanted to talk to her, just to say hello, or to ask how she was, or something. Anything. Every morning I would wake with the same resolution, and every day as time wore on I would lose nerve, more and more, her grey eyes melting away the firm resolve that had stirred me from sleep. It isn't like Katniss was the only beautiful girl in school. She wasn't. There were lots of pretty girls—some clever, some stupid. I noticed all of them, but somehow only Katniss kept my interest. Only Katniss was the one not bothered about how shabby her clothes were. Only Katniss had terse, smart, and surprising answers to the teacher's questions in lectures. Only Katniss could make any boy in the room blush and cower with a flick of her grey eyes. Other girls laughed too loudly, spoke too easily, revealed too much too quickly. Other girls noticed me and made much of me for a while, flattering me with shallow laughter and talk, brushing my shoulder with teasing fingers. Pretty soon, they gave up when they found they couldn't get much flirtation back from me. I just couldn't do it. It felt wrong to flirt with other girls, as if I could betray her with such things. Even though I had no reason to feel so tied to her, I still did just the same. Since the bread, I had promised myself to help keep her alive. That ties you to someone no matter what. Anytime a girl would angle her way between me and the door, I could feel _her_ grey eyes, cool as steel, and I would see nothing else.

When I had rounded the corner, heading for the street to the bakery, my eye had caught a smudge of yellow. Glancing, I had seen Gale with his head bent, lips pressed to Fen's mouth, her creamy arms stained pink from the cold. She should have been wearing a sweater, but Gale's tan hands ran up and down her skin. She was laughing, muffled against his cheek.

The whole sight took me by surprise; I had assumed that Gale was with Katniss. They were often together, hunting or bartering. Yet as I watched, I remembered that Gale was a bit older, that Katniss was lean and flat-chested, that Fen often flirted with Gale during lunch when she got a chance to catch up alone. Though the scene was jarring, it struck me then in a strange way. Gale with his hands on her yellow sleeves looked so vulnerable then. Fen was a merchant girl, yet she had managed to catch Gale's interest. I didn't doubt then that he had kept his brief romance with her a secret from most people. Seam folk and merchant folk didn't often mix. Most people just kept to their kind, finding it easier to overcome the hardship through shared experience.

Before either of them could see me, I had darted off down the street, embarrassed but curious. By the next week, Fen ignored Gale, hiding amidst her friends, only furtively glancing his way with anger and longing when she knew he wasn't looking. Gale had resumed his place beside Katniss at lunch, sullenly and silently chewing on his meagre meal. Something had broken it off; something usually does.

And Katniss seemed to not notice it at all, or at least she pretended to not notice for his sake. Every now and then, a boy would make a half-hearted effort at drawing her out, throwing a pinecone her way, or yelling a playful question at her, sometimes daring her to play a game in the courtyard with them, but all of those attempts were met with cool disinterest from her, as she turned her energy to Prim or to silently reading her textbook. She ignored them all with magnificent credulity, unaware how interesting she was to so many. However, I know that Gale noticed. He saw the boys angling her way. I think that is what made him see her for the first time as more than a little sister. Or at least, that's what it seemed to me from my own distance. I could never claim to know really what was going on for anyone. All I seemed to be able to do then was watch and burn with my own quiet love.

The stream runs cold over my fingers as I search for any roots; there are a few, but not many. With a sigh, I look across the water again to the woods. No sign of anyone. I begin to feel that dread return, the sinking of my stomach as I remember again where we are, why we are here. We are in the games, not in the woods of 12. We aren't safe; we aren't home yet. It was foolish of me to let my guard down, even for a little while. She so easily distracts me, her long hair in its thick braid, the tawny skin of her cheek, stained as it is with mud, blood, and tear-stains. She's getting thinner too, alarmingly so. Her trousers sag around her hips and thighs, where before they were snug. Her shirt gapes around her ribs; the jacket with its torn fringe now looks several sizes too big. She's starving. We both are. I can't feel much difference in myself, though I know that I am losing weight too. My clothes also hang more loosely around my body; the water from the stream chills me more easily than it should.

I wonder if the people in the Capitol are enjoying all this. Do they see the peril and bite their nails, wondering who will die first? Do they care? Clearly they don't care in a way that would make a difference. They don't see us rightly. They only see tributes. They can't see us as we are. Portia was right. Haymitch was right. All of this still, despite the sweet tenderness of Katniss, tastes bitter. Anything good here is poisoned. How can we even hope to get out of it unscathed?

We can't.

We just have to get home.

With a sick heart, I think back to the trainride to the Capitol, when Haymitch has vomited all over himself, needing a shower desperately. I had told Katniss that I would look after him, and she had smiled gratefully, making my heart stutter a little.

He spewed all kinds of curses at me when I got him under the water in the shower.

Then with a surprising amount of strength, he grabbed my shirt collar and fiercely tossed me from the shower stall.

"I don't need another tribute trying to drown me." He had roared.

Without a word, I tossed him a towel nearby. Water streaming down his face, he took it with a grimace and wiped off his cheek and shirt in the running water.

Eventually, I got him into another set of clothes. With a groan, he flopped out flat on the floor of the train, his fingers reaching half-heartedly for his drinking glass.

"You've got to help us, you know." I offered with a tone that I only ever used with my mother, void of emotion, straight-forward, simple.

"I don't have to do anything, boy." He countered. "Why should I when all you kids do is die anyway?"

"Maybe it can be different this time."

"That would be a nice change."

"My mom said that 12 could really have a winner this year."

"Maybe you and your mom haven't been watching the television closely enough."

He countered me at every turn.

"So if you don't care if we die, then why are you even here?"

"An excellent question."

"Well?"

"Penance."

"Penance?"

"O they trot me out year after year, I wouldn't be here if it was my choice, boy."

"So you would just let us die? Without any help?"

"I've tried helping. Doesn't do any good."

"You can't know that."

"You can't know anything."

He had reached his glass and was swirling the remaining liquid with his fingertip.

"I don't see how you can even feel so optimistic about getting help." He mused. "You're either remarkably eager or a complete idiot."

"I might be both."

He had snorted then.

"Right. Great."

I had looked at him; he lay in a faint beam of light from the window, his dirty hair in clumps, his fingers dripping, his shirt in wrinkles and stains. This was our help.

I had sighed then.

"Haymitch,….we need you."

His twirling finger had stopped at that, his brow furrowing, his jaw tensing at my words.

I had gotten through. Finally.

"We're not talking about anything today." He muttered, unable to meet my eyes. "We'll talk tomorrow. Just leave me alone. I've got to …lie down."

I had left him then, hoping that in the morning he would indeed be more willing to help us.

But now, in the shadows of the trees, I feel remarkably alone. I know Haymitch has favored Katniss, but that doesn't remove the loneliness from it. Now that I'm by myself, it once more hits me that these games might turn tremendously ugly. The gamemakers don't like it when things are too easy. I begin to doubt that my hope of returning home will be permitted to happen. That would seem too kind, too easy. They are planning something. Will they actually let us go if we can make it to the end?

Suddenly a canon rings out in the air.

No.

No!

Not now! Is she dead? Is Cato here?

I rush back. From the woods behind me I hear her voice calling me, frantic, crazed, desperate. Something is deeply wrong. I rush back through the bushes.

She starts at me as I crash through the leaves and sends an arrow of to my right, missing me but just.

"Peeta!" She throws her arms around me, then starts back with anger. In a flustered flurry, she tells me to stay close to the area, to not wander off, to keep within ear shot so we can hear each other's signal. Behind all her demands is the trembling fear in her eyes—the fear that she had lost me. That silver fear in her eyes makes me want to kiss her, to embrace her and make the arena disappear. However, I don't. She's too angry, and I feel too stupid; of course I shouldn't have wandered too far. I should have thought that the water would drown out any other sound. All of this even though it only takes a few moments to calm down and reorient ourselves still makes me feel incredibly ridiculous. Once again, I feel useless.

But then, she puts her hand to my chest softly and speaks more softly, and her gentleness distracts me from my own thoughts. She is still angry, but her tone is quiet. She upbraids me for eating without her, looking at the berries that lie slightly unruly on the rock. I had put them in a perfect little pile. Now they tumble over the rock.

It doesn't take us long to find Foxface, lying pale and twisted in the fallen leaves.

At first, I don't understand. At first I think that Cato is descending on us, but she quietly corrects me, pointing to the berries.

"Nightlock," she calls them.

And with a sickening heart, I look down at the girl, the dead girl, the one who I have killed. A trail of red juice, or is it blood, runs from the corner of her mouth. Her eyes gaze unseeing at the air. Katniss looks at me with an uncertain expression; she wants to see if I understand it.

My first real kill.

I'm a murderer.

I'm a killer.

Haymitch knew this would happen somehow.

He knew it would cost everything.

I can almost hear his voice, sour, sad, angry: "welcome to the club, boy."


	8. Chapter 8

"Yet the world  
We saw that day made this unreal, for all  
Was in its place"

Edwin Muir "The Transfiguration"

An iron bird, with wide spread silent wings, descends on us. Air whips around our bodies in torrents as we watch. Katniss grips my torso with firm hands, whispering to me in the wind.

"Peeta, we made it. Stay awake. We did it. We're going home. It's over. Don't give up now. Come on. Stay with me."

Her eyes dip down to glance at my leg; the blood flow has started again, pooling out from the wound where the mutt's teeth tore at my flesh. She can see that I'm losing blood fast.

I don't feel well. I can't see straight.

Her hand touches my cheek, the thumb rubbing against the skin. Berry juice stains her palm and fingers. The nightlock berries lie strewn upon the grass at our feet, forgotten now. She was right after all. Our death pledge stirred the gamemakers to bend to her will. Her daring gamble, to die without me at her side, was the master move of the game—not the game of tributes but the game against the capitol. Now they have to follow through on their promise. They have announced it. I heard it. We both are the victors of the 74th Hunger Games.

I stumble a little losing balance. She holds me tighter.

"Come on, Peeta." She says a little stronger. "Come on."

I can't feel my fingers. My leg pulses with deep pain. They lift us up into the air, yet I can hardly register what is happening.

Yet, her voice is persistent behind me.

"Come on. Keep going. We're almost there."

She's determined to keep me alive, now that the gamemakers have realised our bond and our determination to be together, to show them that we can win together. They have permitted our survival _together_. If I were more alive, then I would rejoice and kiss her with relief. I would hold her and never let go again. However, I cannot quite remember where I am going. The world with its swirling air feels confusing and empty, hollow, like the echo of a drumbeat, long lost. Have we won? They are all dead. We must have won after all.

Finally I reach the top, rolling onto the cold hard floor of the hovercraft, groaning and spent. Hands reach for me, lifting me up, binding my leg tight to stop the bleeding. Voices lean in and out over top of me.

"He's fading."

"We need to get him to surgery."

"Get me that IV."

"30 ccs"

"Tie that tight."

"Yes sir."

"Bring the antibiotics this way."

"Here."

"Oxygen."

"On."

"Steady there."

"Sir."

"Can you hand me that?"

"His blood pressure is dropping."

"Steady."

"Where's that clamp?"

"Here."

"Thanks."

I hear screaming from the haze around me. Screaming. Hers. She's screaming my name. Where is she?

"Close that up."

"Yes sir."

Banging on glass: hands pounding on flat glass, hands stained with nightlock juice. My eyes slowly register. Katniss. She's screaming and beating against a glass partition that separates us. Her face is white, her eyes streaming tears, her voice cracked and strained, her mouth open in terror and anger. She's looking at me.

I try to scream back to her. Are they taking her away? What is wrong? Are the games still not over?

She throws herself against the glass, clawing to get to me, a wild animal separated from her young. Now I understand. I'm dying. She wants to save me.

But she can't.

"Katniss!" I try to call, but my voice ends up sputtering in a confused strained whisper.

The voices around me continue to mumble.

"Should we put him out?"

"He'll be out on his own in a minute."

"His pressure is still dropping."

"Can someone do something about the girl?"

"She'll break the glass."

"At least draw the curtain."

"O Briggs is coming. He'll sedate her."

"Good. All that screaming and pounding doesn't help me here."

I try to speak again: "She…she"

"Hush now, Peeta." A warm voice finally in the cold.

"Put him under. I can't focus with the two of them making a fuss. Usually there's only one. We're not prepared for two."

"Anesthetic prepped."

"Go ahead."

Someone grips my face with a clear hand; I struggle.

"Come on!"

"Pressure still dropping, sir."

"Damn it."

"Come on."

My eyes remain fixed on Katniss, her face tight with pain as she stares at me steadily despite the violent pounding of her body. Her eyes never leave mine; she keeps my gaze, even while Briggs come from behind and grabs her arms, even while she kicks and struggles to get to me. Her eyes anchor to me with desperate love, even when he plunges a sedation needle in her neck and carries her away into the shadows.

Her eyes, her grey beloved eyes. They are the last thing I see before I sleep.

When I wake, I am surprised that I am still alive.

I look around to see white, everywhere. White linens, white walls, white light, white floors, snowy white: it blinds me. My body hurts from the whiteness.

However, the first thing I say before I even know if anyone is there to hear me is:

"Where's Katniss?"  
"She's fine, Peeta." That warm voice again.  
"Where is she? Where is she? Let me see her! Let me!"  
"She's in her own room, in another wing of the hospital." A nurse, face hidden behind a snow white mask.  
"I need to see her. Take me there! I have to see her!"  
"Peeta, you need to rest. You are severely malnourished and…." She breaks off.  
"Is she alright? Why can't I see her? Did she make it out ok? She's not dead?" I suddenly remember the hovercraft, but can't remember if she made it up the ladder. Part of me fears that they left her behind to be eaten by mutts. I feel scattered in pieces. I can't remember! Who even am I? Tears feel suddenly fresh on my face.  
"I need to see her. Please! _Please_!"  
"I'm sorry, Peeta. Truly I am. But you will get to see her soon. I promise. Just lie back now."

It takes a lot of coaxing to get me to lie down again, to breathe again. The nurse checks my IV, while I concentrate on breathing, my heart pounding wildly.  
"She's alright then?" I ask with a measure of calm.  
"Yes, she's fine. She's malnourished too, but she walked out of the arena in better shape than you did. She is recovering well."  
"When will I get to see her?"  
"The doctors haven't decided. You have a lot of recovery to do. The recap interview is scheduled for next week, so you will have to be all better for that. You might not see her till then."  
"Next week!"  
"I'm afraid so. The doctor's wanted to give you some time."  
"But if I'm just malnourished then I don't need much time. Just give me some food."  
"It isn't that simple, Peeta."  
"What do you mean? What's wrong?"  
She hesitates.  
"Haven't you noticed yet?"  
"Noticed what?"  
She looks at me with indecision, then she chooses an approach.  
"Why don't you try to stand up, Peeta?"  
At first, I am confused. She's not answering my question. However, when I sit up with some pain, my muscles stinging, and swing my legs around the edge of the bed, I notice something…Or rather I notice an absence.  
I glance up at the nurse. Her eyes watch me, but she remains at a distance. With a shaking hand, I pull back the spotless white sheet.

My leg is gone. All that remains of my right leg is a stump above the knee. Bruises, scabs, red and pink flesh trying to heal, cluster around my leg and the stitches. I can't quite believe it. My brow wrinkles in confusion.  
"What?" I whisper. "What happened?"  
"The surgeon tried to save your leg, but by the time you got back to us, infection and blood loss made it impossible. I'm sorry Peeta."  
I simply stare, trying to understand.  
"My leg is gone." I say with uncertainty.  
"Yes, but you are being fitted for a sensor limb."  
"A what?"  
"A sensor limb. It is an artificial leg that has neural connection technology that the surgeon will attempt to attach to your remaining neural pathways. If the procedure is successful then your artificial limb should be able to respond well to your brain."  
"I don't understand."  
"It means that if it works then the artificial limb will be able to move when your brain tells it to. It won't be perfect. You'll have a limp, but our Capitol technology has advanced so much in the last twenty years that we can offer this to you. Some of our most famous victors have sensor limbs."  
"So….when is this procedure?"  
"In half an hour."  
"Nothing like giving me time to prepare." I mumble, running my hand over my face, trying to comprehend all of this.  
I'm alive. Katniss is alive. She's alright.

But I'm not alright.

I haven't escaped unscathed.

Looking down at the stump that lies awkwardly on the bed, I feel so overwhelmed and conflicted. I almost wish that they would put me under again. It feels like this is all a nightmare. Will I wake up in the forest again? Or in the cave? Surely this is a fever dream.

However, the longer I wait to wake, the more sure I become that it is real. The nurse leaves me alone to process and to eat a cracker that she offers to me. The dry salted crunch of the wafer sticks to my mouth, and my jaw aches from the tension that I hadn't realised that I held there.

I'm scared. For the first time in a long while, I'm scared. It isn't that I wasn't scared when the mutts came down on us, gnashing at our heels. It isn't that I wasn't scared when Cato had me in a death hold, ready to twist my neck. It isn't that I wasn't scared when she held out the berries to me, her fingers cold in the forest air. However, all that fear, as much as I can understand it, wasn't a lonely fear. I was afraid, but I was afraid _with_ her. We were together. When she was with me, even when the mutts seemed to close in on every side as we ran to the cornucopia, I felt ….I don't know…..I felt like no matter what happened, if I died or lived, as long as she was there, then all I had to do was protect her. It was a fear for her as much as myself.

But now…in the quiet of the white room, I am so lonely. And my fear is solely for myself. She's not here for me to protect, for me to love. I'm alone in this.

The nurse returns.

"Will they…." I start but my voice trembles violently.  
"Yes?"  
"Will they put me to sleep for the procedure?" I beg for her to say yes.  
Her eyes soften.  
"I'm afraid that they can't. They need you to be awake to test the neural connection."  
I feel my hand shaking as I bring it to my mouth.  
"Ok." My voice still quivers. I nod trying to calm my heart.

Soon, they come for me: a host of snowy white nurses, pushing my bed into a long corridor, past rows and rows of white lights into a small room, brightly light, with sensors, cords, small surgical knives. They hook me up to the heart rate monitor that immediately starts to pound out an incessant rhythm.

"Calm down, Mr Mellark. We need to get your heart rate down."  
"I can't." I try to say with a firm set jaw, but the quiver of my chin betrays me.  
"It's alright. This won't be too painful. Did the nurse tell you about the procedure?"  
"Yes."  
"Right then. Well just lay back and relax while we work. We'll tell you when we need you."  
They pull up a sheet in front of my torso so I can't watch them work on my leg. I don't know if I would want to watch it anyway.

In the hum of the room, I search for anything to distract me. In the spotless white room, I find nothing.

However, my mind thankfully turns to Katniss.

I see her, bow drawn, arrow pointed at me, or rather at me and Cato, as we struggled on the edge of the cornucopia. Her face was aflame with anger, desperation, focus, fear. She was afraid to shoot. Afraid to lose me after all this.

But she caught my eye and understood my gesture, loosing the arrow into Cato's hand, dooming him to his end. My stomach turns at the memory of his screams.

A sharp pain runs up my thigh. I scream out.

"Keep him still."  
"It hurts!" I cry out. They pin me down.  
"Keep going." The surgeon instructs. The pain burns up my leg.  
"Please." I shout.  
More pain and I try to breathe through it, feeling tears running down my face.  
"Please stop. It hurts." They don't stop.

The pain keeps burning.

I start whispering to myself, trying to get through.

"This will be over soon. It will be over soon. Then I can see Katniss. Katniss Everdeen."

"Keep him still will you?"  
"We're trying, sir."  
"Nearly there."  
"Scalpel please."

It takes a long time.

Eventually, they lift the sheet to show me their work: a prosthetic limb that glistens with newness.

"Try to lift your foot." They command.

I do. The foot lifts slowly. They congratulate themselves. Without much more ceremony, I am returned to my room, and left alone to ponder my new limb in silence. They tell me to practice moving my foot around, to get the neural pathways to establish well. I want to tell them to leave me alone.

The therapy goes well mostly. It is intensely painful at first, but eventually over a few days my leg seems to adjust with minimal pain. I can walk briefly around the room holding on to a silver cane without needing a break from the pain. It is a bearable ache.

Haymitch briefly visits me:  
"Glad to see you're alive." He offers gruffly.  
"Me too. How's she?"  
"She's fine. She's gobbling up food like it is disappearing."  
"They are called the Hunger games."  
"Right."  
He doesn't stay much longer: just long enough to see that I'm alright and to offer me a swig of his flask.  
"No thanks." I lightly laugh.  
"You never know, boy. Recovery isn't always easy."

They are pleased with my progress. So much so that the plans for the interview recap remain on schedule.

They slowly increase my food intake, allowing me to eat more each day, which I can't help but wolf down. Yet despite it all, every time I taste food, waves of guilt wash over me, stopping me from finishing a meal fully. I always leave a little behind, but they don't seem to care.

"He's recovering well." I hear them say beside the bed. With something almost like hatred, I feel like a pet, a wounded creature that they are nursing back to health for their own amusement. They don't see me as me. I'm still nothing. No longer a tribute: now I am their victor. Or at least, technically I am a victor. I know, they all know, that the true victor is Katniss. I just happened to be lucky enough to have her heart care for me, to keep me alive. She's the real winner. I really should be dead.

I can still envision the steady warm gaze in her eyes when she held out the berries to me. Rebellion, anger, and love all intermingled in her eyes.

She's the reason I am still alive.

She is the reason that I will continue to live. I am determined to live…for her.

If only they would let me see her. My heart bursts wanting to know how she is: that she is safe.

When Portia comes to see me, I know that I am finally getting close to seeing Katniss again.

"Peeta." She says with a smile. "It is good to see you."  
"Hi." I offer weakly.  
"Are they treating you well?"  
"Yeah, as well as I can expect, I guess."  
"Well you are a victor now. You should expect the best."  
"I suppose."  
"How is that leg?"  
"It is ok. It only hurts a little now."  
"Good. Good. And are you holding up alright given everything?"  
"You mean,…. given that every one else is dead?" I say dryly. I don't know why I am terse; I just feel trapped, as if I am still in the arena, only inside a white cage.  
"Yes, I suppose that is what I mean, although not everyone is dead. There is Katniss."  
"Yes. Have you seen her? Is she alright?"  
"No. Cinna is with her now."  
"Then I suppose that means that the interview is soon then."  
"Quite soon. Tonight."  
"Really?" I start, half rising. My heart starts in excitement.  
"Well there's still some life in you, after all." She smiles at my eagerness. "Yes, I'm here to get you ready."  
She dresses me in an ash grey suit, no sequins, no shimmer, no fire. Simply smoke and ash. With gentle hands she styles my hair herself even though the prep team should, softly smoothing it and shaping it. All the time she remains silent. When she is finished, a handful of escorts arrive to take me from the hospital to the theatre. Portia gets into the car with me, still quiet and grave. I almost wonder if she is ashamed of me. Did I disappoint the world?

When we reach the theatre, she lightly offers.

"Peeta,"  
I turn to her.  
"I'm sorry."  
I sigh and smile a little. I'm not really sure what she is sorry for. The pain. The leg. The death. The games themselves?

There is no more time for me to ask. Escorts take me inside, where they place me in a holding room, decorated with flowers and trays of chocolates. I don't eat any.

All I can think about now is Katniss, that I will see her soon, that once I see her everything will be alright. We will both be safe again once we are together. It feels wrong to have been away from her for so long. It feels unnatural and dangerous. I suppose that is what comes from experiencing the games together; you see such horrible things that you can't escape; the only solace comes from the friend who saw all of it with you. She's the only one who knows what it is like—the only one who truly can know my heart.

Does she still love me? Now that we are safe, does she feel the same way? I consider her kisses, sweet and deep. I remember her touch, her glance. Yet, somehow the memories feel hinged and painful, as if remembering them conjures up a river of blood to wash away any of the joy. I just need to see her. I need to hold her. I need to know that she's mine, that she won't leave me. If I can have that then I can finally escape from this arena in my mind.

It hasn't stopped: the anxiety, the adrenaline, the fear, the suspicion, the tension, the horror. I still feel, even a week later, like I am in the arena, that at any moment a canon will ring out. It is silly.

It is over. Yet somehow I can't shake the feeling that I'm still trapped.

I know that all I need is to see her, to know that she is alright. When I do, then I will be free.

They bring me out of the holding room and put me in a booth drawn with curtains. They tell me to wait till the curtain drops, and we are called.

My heart pounds. Soon. Soon.

Katniss. Katniss.

Then the curtain drops; our names are called. I hear Caesar's voice.

"Please welcome the Victors from the 74th Hunger Games, Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark!"

A thunder of applause, blinding lights, lights so bright that I am dazzled for a moment.

But then, from the light, almost as if she herself is a child of that light, I see a small thin figure emerge, dressed in glowing yellow, a candle in the chaos, her hair flowing free on her shoulders, her face clean and clear. She's so sorrowfully beautiful.

Katniss.

She sees me and breaks into a run, her face alight with a smile. I can't run well with my leg, but I hobble towards her with the same kind of eagerness.

I need to hold her. I have to.

She collides into my arms, wrapping her candle flames around me, hiding her face in my neck. O it is so good to hold her at last.

"Peeta!" I hear her whisper. Her voice trembles.

"It's ok." I tell her. "We're together now. I love you. Everything is going to be okay now. I love you."

She shudders. And while I kiss her sweet mouth, I can taste tears. She tries to whisper, but the crowd roars, and anything that she wants to tell me is lost upon the violent air.

Still, she is here, with me.

I hold on tightly, not wanting to ever let go again.


	9. Chapter 9

"As long as we are speaking; we are friends  
Love is a fellowship at times ours is-  
A sinking ship with bilge water to pump out  
But like matchwood we always seem to float."

Mark Heathcote, "Disillusionment"

I sit on the edge of my bed on the train, watching the sun sloping into the west. It casts a deep orange glow over the fields and trees that I see rolling down into the haze of the horizon. The colour is so vibrant, so fleeting; it shifts with each second, catching a new spectrum as the seconds move on and on. It's beautiful—painfully beautiful.

It's the only beautiful thing left.  
A sigh escapes me, as I watch time sink into the hills. I'm trying to think it through, trying to see it all clearly, trying to sort through all of the mess of thoughts that collide in my head. What is real? I start to list all the things that I know now that are real.

She's lied. This whole time, the whole thing: a farce, for the cameras, for survival.

All of those kisses, all those tender embraces, all the times she smiled: they all wither and darken. They were empty.

She doesn't love me.

She doesn't love me.

I was a fool, taken in too easily. How the rest of the world must laugh at me! They all must have seen and known I was so gullible. I always thought she was a bad liar; however, it turns out that she is remarkably skilled in that regard. These things are real.  
More real things: my heart feels like a thousand shards of piercing glass, splintered, pieces falling one by one. I don't care to pick them up. Perhaps I am just stupid (which is likely), but I have to sit for a long time to understand it fully. A bird drifts by my window with easy flight. I think back through every moment, every glance, because I remember them all, and re-evaluate them with this new truth.

She never loved me at all.

"I don't know how much of it was real." She had said to me, twisting the stem of a flower I had given to her around her finger in a strangle hold.

I can see where her words lead. She's letting me down easily, or as easily as she can manage. Leaving me in suspension over what is real and what is not, all that is meant to leave me a little hope, a bit of crumbs to satisfy. She's afraid of the insecurity. She doesn't want to wound me, or maybe she just doesn't want me to get upset for the cameras.

I don't know anymore.

I don't know her.

Who is this person for whom I have given everything of myself?

Who is she?

Do I want to know?

While the sun turns scarlet, I feel so many things: too many things. I can't speak. I can't move. My head spins with feeling and confusion and anger and pain the longer I sit in the quiet.

Did she really think so little of me to lie so much and so often? Did it not pain her to weave such deadly webs? Didn't she care at all?

How could I not have seen? I should have known it was all too quick, all to easy. She's never been either of those things. Why would I suddenly believe that I had won her heart with a few conversations and kisses? Who could be that stupid?

Haymitch was right all along: I am an idiot.

Then a new flurry of anger hits me. Haymitch. Why did he let me go on with all of this, with this romance if he knew it wasn't real? She said that he's been coaching her from the games till now, walking her through the steps of how to pretend to be in love with a boy that you really don't care about at all. It's sickening. How could he ever feel that was fair or right? Does he despise me too?  
Who are all these people that I have entrusted with my life?  
They are all liars and empty hollow shells of truth.  
I can see that now. I see the truth now. This is real.  
She never loved me. Haymitch rewarded her efforts at romance in the games with food and medicine. The only reason that I am alive is because the capitol found the romance intriguing, because Haymitch figured out a way to get us both out. The only reason that I'm not dead is because she couldn't bear the guilt of another death on her hands. It was never about me at all. It was always about her: what she wanted, what she felt, what she imagined, what she said, what she could or couldn't handle. All of her actions, I realize, have truly been in service to herself, never really out of love for me. And I feel so dreadfully stupid.  
I don't even know if she even likes me. I doubt it. I'm just a hanger-on, an extra weight to be borne—an annoyance. How could this have happened? How could I have been so blind?

Easily: I dreamed her up. This beautiful girl, still so beautiful to me despite everything, I imagined her tender and kind hearted, vulnerable, loving, clever, cunning, protective, brave. And while she may be those things, I neglected to see the rest of her: her selfishness, her pride, her hatred, her disregard for anyone outside of herself. It isn't just that she doesn't love me. She _can't_ love me. She isn't _able_ to love, not how someone should love. All she is able to do is scheme, pretend, self-protect, masquerade, play at love, twist my heart around her arrow and shoot it into the depths of the earth.  
I feel too many things all at once. Clearly, I need to get over myself, but for now I let myself feel what I can feel. I owe myself that after all of this. I can't really seem to help it.

The sun slips behind a cloud; I feel the train slouch forward.

We're moving again. Surprisingly, a small part of me wonders if she made it back on the train safely, but my anger quickly corrects, knowing that we wouldn't be moving without her. She's the motivating factor, the focal point, in all of this narrative. Cinna saw it and chose her. Haymitch saw it and let me down lightly with silence and lies. She has no idea how powerful she is, how much she inspires people to dream stupid dreams.

The sky has gone violet, varying shades of purple that diminish into grey and into the deep growing night. We draw closer to District 12 with each moment, but the idea of home has a hollow feeling to it.  
I don't have a home anymore. Not now. Not ever again. Not really. I had set up my home in her heart, thinking it would be secure and safe, but now the shelter is dashed to pieces. I've lost her. This is so stupid.

I never had her to begin with. Now she has finally been brave enough to tell me the truth. Clearly it is still just about her—she couldn't handle it until now. Nevermind what might be best for me.

As the scenery begins to move more swiftly by, my heart still alive and writhing with anger, sadness, shock, and self-hatred, dulls to a rolling emptiness. Stars start to peek out of the night sky, small specks of hope that I wish I could hold on to.  
It would have been better to die in the arena in the depths of the lie. The stark world of the truth feels desolate. It feels like there is nothing for me now.  
O I will be rich, as a victor. My family and I will be well provided for—a house in the Victor's Village, Effie says, has already been established for us. Yet all that feels stupid and empty without her in it.

I don't want to give her more power over me; I don't want to let her take my life again and again. Yet it does feel right now that, in each day without her, she will kill me, over and over.  
A dry taste of blood fills my mouth, as I realize that I have bitten my cheek in anger. Quietly I ring for room service to bring me some water.

When it arrives with a knock, I open the door to find Haymitch holding the glass.

"This yours?" He offers lightly.  
I take it without a word and close the door. For a moment, he pauses unsure of my cold attitude, then he opens the door and pokes his messy head in.  
"What's your problem?"  
I sit down on the bed again, my back to him and sip my water in silence.  
"Peeta?" His voice seems concerned, as much as Haymitch can be concerned about someone. Tears well up in my eyes. I turn to look at him.  
"Aw shit." He says, rubbing his hand over his face. He understands. "How'd you find out?"  
"She told me when the train stopped."  
"Damn it."  
He sighs and leans into his hips uncomfortably. He doesn't know what to say. I do.  
"So, Haymitch, when were _you_ planning on telling me the truth?"  
He stares at me, surprised at my chilly tone.  
I continue: "Were you just going to let me carry on thinking that she loved me, thinking that everything was okay, thinking that it had all been worth while? _Were_ you going to tell me? Or were you just going to keep coaching her indefinitely, and keep me as a fool?" I speak with a terse voice, but I don't yell. Not yet. Not now.  
"Peeta, I was going to tell you once all the fanfare and cameras had gone. Once you were both out of the spotlight."  
I'm angry; it comes out with bitter words.  
"I never asked you to lie to me, Haymitch. I never asked you to give me false hope. All I asked was for you to help me die at the right time."  
He sparks up at this.  
"Now you just shut up for a second. You should be damn grateful to me. You're alive because I didn't think your life was worth throwing away. I saw a way to make it work, and I took it. You were the one stupid enough to want to die for her. You should be grateful that you're both alive."  
"Yeah, you were a lot of help to me in the arena." I bite back.  
His eyes flame: "I had to pick someone. How do you think I managed to get the careers to take you in? You think they believed your story about wanting to double cross her? Not for a second. When I told you to get out at that meeting, I told them the truth, that you loved the girl and wanted to make it to the end for her sake. I told them that I had picked her, that I planned to sacrifice you, that I was going to use you to play the game. You were just a pawn. I told them that the tragic romance would be worth while; even if she didn't win, it would make for an interesting year. The Capitol has been putting pressure on the mentors to step up the game. The only reason that you got in with the careers and lasted as long as you did is because we all agreed that a love story made compelling television. Now don't you sit there looking at me like I am the bad guy here. You were the one who wanted to try to lie. I told the truth. From there, the love story took on a life of its own. You don't know what it was like out here, watching. You can't even imagine. And you, you're frankly not one to understand the kind of communication that I had to use. You don't question anything. You don't suspect anything. She does. She saw what my messages were right away. If I had relied on you, then you both would be dead. Now, yes, she's confused. Yes, she played you for a fool. Yes, it hurts you. But don't you forget that she didn't _have_ to do that. She could have let you die. She didn't owe you anything, Peeta. It's because of her that you are even here."  
"I know that."  
"Then get over it."  
"You don't understand."  
"Don't give me that!"  
"What?"  
"You think that you're the only one to get your heart trampled on because of these games? You're not."  
"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"  
"No it's supposed to make you wake up. This isn't over. Just because you know the truth now, doesn't mean that the charade stops."  
"What?" Horror creeps in.  
"Good grief. You haven't even thought that far? The Capitol isn't going to let this go."  
Haymitch sits down beside me to hammer in his point in a quieter tone, as if he is afraid: "The people saw the romance because they were watching you; they believed you. The gamemakers were watching Katniss. She's not as convincing as you think she is. The romance will need to continue."  
"But it….we didn't…How can it?…."  
"What?"  
"I just didn't want to live without her. How can I live knowing that I actually don't have her?" I say quietly.  
Haymitch sighs and looks out the window to the stars wheeling across the sky as we plunge deeper into the dark. His voice sounds almost like sympathy.  
"I don't know, boy."  
"What am I supposed to do?" I put my head in my hands.  
"Just try to look happy and in love for the cameras when we get there. We have to make sure that the Capitol and the districts see it all as an act of desperate love. Young lovers from 12 too in love to live without each other. As long as that story sticks, that you two were just too young and stupid to listen to the rules, then the Capitol should calm down. After all the dinners and speeches are over, then you can go home and try to live again."  
It sounds like a horrible plan.  
"Did you?" I ask boldly in the quiet.  
"Look at me! Clearly I'm a paragon of recovery." He says with thick irony. "You'll just have to try, Peeta. You've got your family. Focus on them. Protect them."  
"But they don't need me."  
"Well, pretend they do…. You know, you make this incredibly difficult!" He bubbles over with frustration. "Once the cameras are gone then you both can try to start over."  
"You mean be friends?"  
"I don't know. Whatever. Ignore her. Do what you want. Just know that this charade probably won't be over any time soon. You're in the lie deep."  
"I don't want to be."  
"Well, why do you think I didn't want to tell you the truth. You naturally did all the right things to make it all look like the romance was real."  
"It was for me."  
"Well just keep it that way. Keep loving her."  
"When she doesn't love me back? How can I kiss her, hold her, when I know she doesn't want it?"  
Haymitch rubs his face in exhaustion: "Well, you know what! You can figure that out yourself. What am I supposed to do! Peeta, I did my best. I'm sorry that my best isn't enough for you."  
He gets up with a huff, angry, and as a parting shot: "Try and imagine yourself in her shoes too, alright? This isn't easy for her either."  
He slams the door shut.  
I'm left in silence expect for the distant hum of the train.  
I want to yell at him. I want to scream. But I can't because I know he's right.  
It takes me a while to come down from my anger. Eventually, I sit with my back against the headboard of my bed, looking out at the night, thinking about what is to come.  
An endless life of charades, of play-acting: if the Capitol is indeed suspicious of Katniss' rebellious act, then we'll have to maintain this romance for quite a while. I'm not the kind of person to stop loving; if I am supposed to be honest and real, then I will still have to love her—despite it all. The more I think about it, the more it horrifies me.  
Can I do that? My heart feels too raw to even contemplate it.  
Instead, I let my mind work itself into a resigned calm.  
From the start, I didn't have a choice.  
How foolish I was to imagine that I could ever be free in all of this!  
I think back to the night before the games, when she sat with her hair down over her shoulders, her skin illuminated by the city lights in the night.  
Her eyes had been steady on me, pools of stormy feeling, fear, anxiety, anger, and curiosity.  
From the shadows I had said, "I just keep trying to think of a way to show them that they don't own me."  
"You mean you won't kill anyone?" she had asked.  
"No, I mean, I'm sure I would if it came to it…But it's just that I don't want to be another piece in their games, you know? If I'm going to die, then I want to still be me in it."  
Her face had gone a little pale:  
"I can't think like that. I can't afford to." She had offered quietly. "I have Prim, my sister."  
"I know you do. You want to get home to her."  
"Yes."  
I was a fool to dream that I could escape it. Perhaps she knew even then: that I would fail to elude their grasp.  
I'm still a piece in the game—in her game, in the Capitol's game, in the relentless checkmate that she has negotiated with them.  
And I am trapped, a pawn, unable to go my own way.  
All I can do is give myself up to it.  
Suddenly, I remember the fawn from the woods, caught in the cougar's jaws, the evening when I had waited for Katniss in the trees, hoping to talk to her. I remember its heaving breath as it struggled a final time to escape, but then it had gone limp, its eyes wide.  
A scream tears into the air, waking me from my thoughts. It's Katniss. She's screaming.  
I freeze, part of me wanting to run to her, the other part of me wanting to stay put and stop up my ears to her pain.  
Slowly, I get up, and softly pad out into the hall, silently hobbling with my cane up to her door. Now, her screams have quieted into whimpers, and as I listen, I can hear her sobs muffled into a pillow. I don't move, but my heart collapses in defeat.

It's not _all_ her fault. I realize with some resistance that Haymitch is right.  
Whether she loves me or not, I owe her my life. That fact hurts and stings even more.  
As I turn and walk back to my room, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the window, a gaunt thin boy, haunted, sleepless, desperate.  
I can still hear her crying as I reach my door.  
Katniss: my fallen idol, my graceless desire, you are not what I thought you were. I don't know you. We are still strangers in the rain.  
What can I do with the pieces of you that remain? What will the morning bring, and the next and the next and the next?  
I don't know anymore.  
I know nothing. Nothing.

My door slides shut. I go to the window again.  
It must have clouded over. The stars are gone.

Now I'm just a boy in the dark, a stupid boy with burnt bread, who doesn't know anything, even himself.


End file.
